“You were trying to scratch at your stitches,” someone said. The voice was American, and very familiar.

I opened my eyes to find Stephen, Callum, and Boo were gone. In their place, I found my mother.

“You were trying to scratch at your stitches,” my mom said again. She was holding my hand.

“Where did the others go?” I asked. “Did you see them?”

“Others? No, honey. It’s just us. We got on the first train. We’ve been here since this morning.”

“What time is it now?”

“It’s around two in the afternoon.”

I desperately wanted to scratch at my stitches. She steadied my hand again.

“Dad’s getting a coffee,” she said. “Don’t worry.

He’s here. We’re here now.” My mom sounded so . . . Southern. So soft. So out of place. My mom was home. This was an English hospital. She made no sense in this context.

My dad joined us a minute later, bearing two steaming cups. He wore his slouchy dad jeans and Tulane sweatshirt. My dad never went out in the Tulane sweatshirt. They both looked like they had dressed in the middle of the night, in whatever they could find.

“Hot tea,” he said, holding up the cups. “It’s just wrong.”

I smiled a little. We were iced tea drinkers, all of us. We’d joked about how disgusting it would be to drink our tea hot, with milk. That is just not how we do it. We had iced tea with every meal. Unceasing rivers of iced tea, even for breakfast, even though I knew that unceasing rivers of iced tea will stain your teeth a fetching ecru color, like old lace. I liked mine disgustingly sweet, too—so extra dental care points there. Iced tea, my family . . .

“Dad,” I said.

He put down the cups and they both just stood there, looking upset. The only thing I could think was that this is what people must see at their own viewings, when they’re stuck in their coffins. All you can do is lie there while people stand over you and mourn. It was a little much to bear, and my memories were coming back faster and faster. There were things I needed to know—I needed updates.

“Can I see the news?” I asked.