“We should grab some lunch,” I say. “Hungry?”

You nod, and your skin makes a squeaking noise against the glass. I eye the diner warily, but there’s nothing else close. There is the seafood place at the southern end of Nysa, and somewhere between here and there is a burger joint. Was a burger joint. It was in a terrible state of deterioration even when I was a kid, so if it has followed in the footsteps of the rest of Nysa, it is probably nothing more than a pile of dust.

Again, I am overwhelmed when I think about why I’m here. Finding you a home feels less and less likely. For the hundredth time since my diagnosis, I wish Mary was here. I would feel completely at peace with dying if I knew she could watch over you.

But would I? If she was here, would I be so willing to say goodbye to this old lump of dirt circling the sun? And if she was here, would your parents have even met? Would you even be here? Now that’s a sobering thought. If Mary hadn’t left me on that day long ago, your father’s life would have been so different. Would we have ever left Nysa? Would your father ever have met your mother and vanished? Would your mother have overdosed? It’s hard to imagine the endless twists and turns in life that would be different if Mary hadn’t left.

I pull into the diner’s parking lot and turn off the car. You give a half smile and climb out. I shake my head, weariness from the drive weighing on my eyes. I see you in the rearview mirror, walking up to the door of the diner like an adult going in for a table for one. I rub my eyes.

Some food and a good night’s sleep will make all the difference, I think, racking my brain for reasons the town feels so empty. It’s a weekend—perhaps everyone has gone to the coast or is taking the day off of work. That’s it. It’s quiet because everyone is off work or off school, and most of these businesses are probably closed for the day.

I follow you into the diner, and again I find myself disoriented, unable to tell between past and present. A cowbell rings quaintly above the door. The same old bar with the same old bar stools. The afternoon air inside the place has a slow feel to it. Two men sit with their elbows on the bar, a mug of black coffee in front of each of them. One man wears eyeglasses with dark lenses and a John Deere ball cap. The other man is dressed more professionally, wearing a collared shirt with the top two buttons undone and a tie that’s been loosened so much it resembles a noose. They both swing their heads and look at me when I walk in, size me up, and go back to staring at their open newspapers.