She clears her throat. “Mr. Elias, I don’t normally . . .” Her voice collapses in on itself.

“Dr. Cortez, I’ve been trying to get you to call me Paul for over a year now.” I try to chuckle, but no sound comes out.

“Mr. Elias . . . Paul . . .” she says.

“I understand,” I say, and my composure seems to catch her off guard. I shrug and give her a small but heavy smile. “I’m fifty-eight years old. I’ve had many good years. But I have a granddaughter in my care. She depends on me. She has no one else, and I’ll need to find someone to take her in.” My voice cracks. I clear it. My words come out all breath. “It would help, I’m sure you understand, if I had some idea.”

I have never felt so much like I’m underwater. I think of Mary. What was the last thing she thought, going under? Was she afraid? Was she thinking of me? Could she see the light from the midmorning sun, glimmering too far above her?

The doctor shakes her head. “I don’t normally . . . It’s a guessing game. You could live much longer.”

My mouth tightens into a smile. “I understand,” I say again, trying to nudge her with a kind glance. “Your best guess.”

She breathes quietly, a bird quivering in the brush. She licks her lips. Her head tilts, and her hand moves instinctively to the unbuttoned collar of her blouse, hiding the triangle of tender skin. She can’t make eye contact with me as she says the words, and this fills me with an immense amount of affection for her. It’s all I can do not to move across the small room and hug her.

“The soonest? Anytime, really.” She seems to be holding her breath. She doesn’t know where to look.

Anytime.

“And the longest? Perhaps two or three months.”

Three months.

Her chest quivers in what seems to be a stifled sob. It strikes me as both completely unprofessional and deeply human.

Between anytime and three months.

I feel a subtle relief. There it is. The finish line.

I think of you, and the relief turns sour. How can I leave you behind? Who will take care of you?

The idea comes to me as I sit in Dr. Cortez’s office. I will take you back to my hometown, back to where I grew up. Back to Nysa. I will show you the home I was born in, the creeks I fished, the small town where my friends and I caused trouble. To me it feels like the last safe place in the world, and if I have to leave you, that seems the best place to do it. I don’t know who will take you in, but the idea of driving with you through these early autumn days feels so good that I decide we will leave today. This afternoon.

Or tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow morning at the latest.