John showed none of it to Annie. And her agent and editor passed along none of the requests for interviews. Annie went to a therapist by the name of Dr. Maya Hersh—she’d come highly recommended by Finnegan, who had sent other authors her way—to deal with what she was going through, one of the few times she was able to laugh during this period. “How is it we’ve lived in New York all this time without at least one of us seeing a therapist?” she asked John before going to her first session.

She did little work. She rarely entered her studio, which was on the top floor of the Bank Street residence, the walls decorated with oversized framed blow-ups of the Pierce book covers. It had been her second-favorite spot in the house, after the kitchen, but to enter was to be reminded of her creation, and what it had led to.

But as her third month of despondency was coming to an end, Annie started coming out of her funk. She’d had a dozen sessions with her therapist. She wrote a letter to Evan’s parents expressing her sorrow, and they’d written back to tell her how much joy her stories had brought their son, adding that they did not need to forgive her, because there was nothing to forgive her for.

That brought tears to her eyes, but it had helped.

She returned to her studio for an hour or two a day, often sitting at her desk and staring at a blank sheet of paper, but it was something. Annie debated whether to create a new character, one who didn’t fly. Maybe it was time to move on from Pierce the Penguin. Charlie, who was now seven and well aware of what his mother had gone through, said she should do a book about a camel who solves crimes.

Annie had smiled. “Let me think about that.”

She and John began reappearing at their favorite restaurants. They went to the movies. They took Charlie on a trip to Montreal. Annie spent more of the day in the studio, sketching out ideas, putting down anything that came into her head. One day, to her own surprise, she found herself drawing a short, stout little guy who looked like a headwaiter with wings and a beak.

Pierce.

And then she drew a bubble above his head and inserted the words, I’m sorry, too.

“It’s not your fault,” Annie told him.

She thought she could hear him saying back to her, Well, if it’s not mine, then it’s not yours, either.

“I’d like to believe that. I really would.”

Are you going to end me?

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I don’t know. I need . . . time. But maybe. Things are . . . things are getting better.”

And then John died.