Addie was grieving because Sybil was suffering. She was doing her best to face up to the difficulty of looking to the near future and imagining life without her dearest friend. The travellers on this journey, all the travellers—Sybil’s mom, her brother and his wife, Addie, other members of Sybil’s extended family—had begun a slow march toward some sort of open pit that would be created by Sybil’s absence.

She thought of the letters again. A more relaxed time during her friend’s “good” period—a heartbreakingly short remission.

For the past month, I have been a lady of leisure. My blood work is good. My stamina improves daily. I firmly believe that the capacity to treat this disease lies within my own body. My responsibility to my body is to mobilize resources and allow it to cure itself.

Addie, it truly is a new experience not to be under the stress of work all the time. Even though I was aware of pushing myself continuously, it had never really occurred to me just what that meant. My life has changed dramatically. Absolutely no pressure—and to be honest, not a situation conducive to productivity. Some days I believe that if I were any less productive, I’d cease to be classified as human.

Addie checked the time, irritated to realize she’d be late for an early morning meeting. This was going to be a long day. She had to leave directly from work in the afternoon to drive to Greenley because Sybil was being moved from her mother’s home to the palliative care wing at the health centre. Addie had promised to be there to help her take that step. The family needed support during the transition.

Some of us really are perpetual caregivers, she thought. Do these roles land on us because they’re predestined? Is there a gene that doles out instructions for caregiving? Because I have certainly noticed that caregivers make up one strip of society. The needy lean. Heavily, at times. If one caregiver turns away, a replacement will be found. Because the needy will always be . . . well, needy. But caregivers seldom turn away. We allow the leaning because we are perpetual caregivers. And we are mostly—but not always—women.

Despite being entirely worn out, Addie could not imagine herself turning away from Sybil’s needs. She could not remember a time when she’d walked through her days with so little energy. Thinking about this, she recalled a Cambridge study that had moved across her desk earlier in the year: about genes playing a role in empathy. Sure enough, several months later, an Oxford study contradicted. Neither one was going to alter Addie’s course at this particular moment.

She glanced at the clock one more time, scooped up her papers and, in double time, headed for the car. She checked herself, and slowed deliberately. She was thinking of Tye again. Vaut mieux arriver en retard qu’en corbillard, he’d once warned. Better to arrive late than in a hearse.

Madame Levesk. She still enjoyed the title. She and Tye had made an effort to learn Portuguese phrases from their building superintendent in the early years of their marriage. The man had enthusiastically shared his language, and Addie could still haul up a few words and expressions: Como vai?—How are you? Adeus—Goodbye. Tenho saudades daqueles tempos—I miss those times. Desculpe—I’m sorry.