He laughs softly again, more like an exhale than laughter. “I wish it could have been,” he says.

I pull him tighter into my lap, wanting to squeeze the infection from his body, to clean his blood with my love. “I'm sorry,” I whisper. “I'm so, so sorry.” The sobs roll over me now so that I can barely hear him tell me that he knows.

All I can think about is how I have wasted my last day with Travis being angry at him. That I should have spent this day memorizing his face. Counting the freckles on his shoulders.

I realize that I will never again see him when he smiles at me with the sun in his face, making him squint and bringing out the little wrinkles beside his eyes. I will never watch him walk, the rolling gait of his limp.

I will never feel the press of his palm against my cheek.

Suddenly, all I can think about are all the things I don't know about him. All the things I never had time to learn. I don't know if his feet are ticklish or how long his toes are. I don't know what nightmares he had as a child. I don't know which stars are his favorites, what shapes he sees in the clouds. I don't know what he is truly afraid of or what memories he holds closest.

And I don't have enough time now, never enough time. I want to be in the moment with him, feel his body against mine and think of nothing else, but my mind explodes with grief for all that I am missing. All that I will miss. All that I have wasted.

That we will not spend our lives together. That I do not have enough time to memorize him and even now I am forgetting him.

That I am not ready for this, not ready for his death.

“Tell me about the ocean, Mary,” he says. “Tell me about how it's the last place untouched by all of this.”

I shake my head. “The ocean is nothing,” I say. “It's just like the rest of the world.” He takes my chin in his hands, his grip surprisingly strong. “Promise me you'll go to the ocean,” he says.

I shake my head. “But you said—”

“Forget what I said. Promise me you will taste the salt for me.” I want to pull back time, to grab it and stop it from unraveling. I want to gather it to me and hold it close and keep this moment from slipping away. But I can't. And Travis's hand falls from my face.

“No,” I say, clutching at him, trying to keep him with me. “I choose you. I choose you over the ocean.”

“Promise me, Mary,” he says again. This time his voice is weak, his breath rattling.

“I love you,” I tell him. But he does not answer. Because he is dead.

Then I'm being pulled away from him.