Carol went into remission not long after her extended trip to Warrenton. She lived several healthy years in Wheeling and enjoyed frequent visits from Lisa, Scott, and Kimmy.

The cancer eventually returned, and this time it was apparent that it would not be worth attempting to treat. Lisa insisted that Carol come to live with the family in Warrenton, so she could provide full-time care. Carol stayed in Rae’s bedroom, which had been transformed into a sparsely decorated but comfortable guest room. Lisa did her best to make her mother comfortable as the cancer spread. They gave Carol medications to manage the pain and help her sleep. She grew very weak, and the medications muddled her mind so that conversation swirled over and around her and she found it impossible to keep up or contribute. Impossible, too, to move her eyes at will; they drifted and rolled, seemingly independent of each other and the muscles that had once brought things into focus. The world was garbled, yet not harsh or unpleasant. She enjoyed the presence of her family but couldn’t follow their comings and goings. Everything felt like sleep except sleep itself, which was as dense and colorless as wet concrete.

Carol passed away on a bright winter morning while Scott was at the grocery store and Lisa was cooking breakfast in the kitchen. Kimmy was at her bedside. Kimmy, fifteen years old now, was reading aloud from Great Expectations, which was assigned reading for her literature class. Lisa had encouraged her to keep talking to her grandmother, explaining that even when Carol could no longer respond, she would find comfort in familiar voices. The sun was shocking on the fresh snow outside, and it burst through the windows like a scream. Kimmy paused her reading to reach over and adjust the curtain so her grandmother’s face was shielded from the light. This was when she noticed a difference in Carol’s breathing. It was quiet but raggedy, a little wet. Her eyes were closed.

Kimmy said, “Grandma?” The book fell from her lap as she leaned forward. “Grandma?”

Carol’s lips were parted and her expression was untroubled. There was a very long break after her next exhale, and when the inhale finally came, it was shallow, noncommittal. Kimmy thought to call out to her mother but didn’t want to disturb her grandmother’s rest. She also realized that there wasn’t time; Lisa wouldn’t make it up the stairs before it happened. She held her own breath as a powerful whoosh seemed to suddenly flow not in or out of Carol’s mouth, but through the air all around them, and when this sound dissipated, Kimmy was alone in the room.

Alex and Kimmy remained close through high school. They attended summer camp together, and their mothers coordinated visits. When they got their driver’s licenses, they drove to see one another for long weekends. When the time came to consider college, they applied for the same ones. Both were admitted to WVU in Morgantown, where Ryan was in the PhD program, and they were roommates for all four years.