“They won’t let us all stay in here.” Hallie began to pace the tiny room in a four-foot square, walking an outline. “Only two at a time they told me.”

“I don’t see them coming to remove us.” Colleen placed her hand on the end of the bed, hanging on to it like a life preserver.

“But you can’t have food or drink in here, in ICU.” Hallie looked directly at Colleen. “Go get food now. And water. If you pass out you’re no good to any of us.”

Hallie was right of course. Colleen felt dizzy and untethered, the throbbing in her wrist telling her it was more than just a sprain. She needed food—how long had it been since she’d eaten? It was ten at night now, so at least twenty-four hours. Colleen took a few steps toward the door and then ran back to kiss her dad’s flaming cheek. “I’ll be right back. You stay right here and don’t move.”

It was something her dad had said to her a thousand times, or maybe more, as he walked away to speak to a customer or grab a box from the back of the pub. He’d set Colleen on a bar stool next to a friend or neighbor. I’ll be right back. You stay right here and don’t move.

And she never had. She’d always waited there, her legs swinging off the stool, knowing he would return.

•   •   •

Colleen emerged from her visit to the ER downstairs with a cast on her arm and wrist, a bag of fluids in her veins for dehydration and a prescription for pain pills that she refused to take, not wanting to miss a moment with her dad. The night brought fitful sleep sitting straight in hard chairs, taking turns by Dad’s side. Only one at a time during the night, they were told. The other two stretched out on the vinyl couch in the waiting area, where more than fifteen minutes of sleep could be had at one stretch.

When Colleen dozed off for more than two minutes, she dreamed of heat and thirst, of broken bones. She felt the waves beneath the boat, a slow rolling that brought the hospital cafeteria cheeseburger to rise up in the back of her throat. She prayed. She prayed to the One whom Dad believed watched over them. His god lived in and on the river; he lived in everything everywhere.

Once—Colleen wasn’t sure what time it was—when she was alone with Shane, he placed his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. “Mother must have forgiven Dad. They had such a beautiful life.”

“She must have, yes.” Colleen rested on her brother’s shoulder, her broken wrist throbbing against the hard cast. “But I don’t think she ever forgave me.”

“For what?”