Just then his mother returned from the cafeteria. She took one look at them and knew. “Marshall?” she said, hurrying to his bedside.

His eyes were misty as he asked her, “How could I . . . forget . . . my own son?”

Taking his hand in hers and wrapping her other arm around Peyton, she said, “You never forgot him, Marshall. You just forgot that he grew up. We can forgive that, can’t we?”

She looked at Peyton, who said, “Nothing to forgive.”

“Peyton, honey, you need something to eat,” his mother said, pulling money out of her wallet. “And I want you to get out of this hospital and get some fresh air now that the rain is finally letting up. Why don’t you walk down to that little diner we tried by the university? Take a stroll around campus and get away from all this hospital gray.”

“Okay.” He grinned down at his dad, who looked so sad right now. “Want me to bring you something you’re not supposed to have?”

That brought a smile. “Slip me a hot dog,” his father said, “like the ones . . . we used to get . . . at the ballpark.”

“You bet.”

“You better not,” his mother said with a grin. “Take your time, honey. Spend this afternoon on yourself. We’ll be here when you get back.”

After Peyton left, Kate volunteered to help her husband with his afternoon exercise. She kept one hand at his back and pushed an IV cart with the other as Marshall held on to a walker and slowly inched down the corridor. He had always moved with such athletic grace. It was heartbreaking to see him struggle to put one foot in front of the other.

“Not much farther, honey,” she said, “and you’re doing great.”

He sighed and looked down at her. “Liar.”

“I’m giving you my professional opinion as a registered nurse, board certified by the great state of Georgia,” she countered.

They made their way back to his room, where she got him settled into bed. He wanted his head raised so they could talk for a little while.

“I’m not supposed to sit on your bed, but I’m feeling a little reckless,” she said as she lowered the railing and sat down facing him.

He took her hand and kissed it. “You’re worn out, aren’t you, Hop?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. But like Aunt Gert used to say, it’s a good tired.” She gently ran her fingertips across his brow, just below the white bandage that covered most of his head. “Can you tell me what you remember, Marshall?”

“It’s so strange,” he said. “It’s like . . . all of my memories were written down in a book . . . and somebody tore out a bunch of the pages here and there.”

“So it hops and skips?”

“Yes. I remember everything . . . up until Peyton was about four years old. Then I remember that awful ceremony . . . when Daddy signed over the estate. I could . . . feel the knives at my back.”