But he was still in the bathroom, looking at the face in the mirror.

Sarah, Lauren’s best friend, was waiting for him when he came out. “You okay?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” Her eyes were wet. She took his hand and squeezed it. “This is a fucking nightmare.”

“Yep.”

“Did you eat anything?”

“Yes,” he said, though he couldn’t remember.

Sarah walked him back to his table. People spoke to him. Some of them cried.

Josh stared at the table. He may have responded to the people who talked to him. It didn’t really matter, though, did it?

Sometime later, Darius drove him home to the old mill building turned condos. “Want me to come in, buddy?” he asked in the parking lot.

“No, no. I . . . I think I want to be alone.”

“Got it. Listen, Josh, I’m here for you, okay? Anytime, night or day. We married sisters. We’re family forever. Brothers.”

Josh nodded. Darius was very tall and had rich brown skin, so Josh doubted anyone would mistake them for brothers, but it was a nice thought. “Thanks, Darius.”

“This really sucks, man.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry. She was . . . she was a peach.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll text you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He went up the stairs, his legs heavy. For the past six days, he’d been staying at his mom’s house, glad for the familiar comfort of his childhood home, the smells and furniture. Lauren, whose own mother was a bit of a drama queen, had welcomed his mother’s calm ways, understood her devotion to her only child, admired Stephanie for raising him alone. Lauren was more than a daughter-in-law to his mom; she was the daughter Stephanie never had.

Had been. She had been.

Jesus. He had to change tenses now. He unlocked the apartment door and went inside. He hadn’t been here since Lauren was hospitalized . . . when was that? Six days ago? Eight? A lifetime.

The island lights shone gently, and the lamp by the reading chair was on low. Someone had been here. The place was immaculate. The pillows were plumped on the couch, pillows Lauren had bought. A bouquet of yellow tulips sat on the kitchen island, smack in the middle, obscenely cheerful. The blankets that Lauren had used, since she was always cold, were folded, one draped over the back of the couch.

It was so quiet.

Pebbles, their goofy Australian shepherd mutt, had been staying with Jen since Lauren’s hospitalization; Josh had forgotten to ask for her back. Well. Another day wouldn’t matter.

Josh went into the bedroom. Lauren’s medical stuff—her at-home oxygen, her percussion vest—was gone. Josh had agreed to that, he remembered vaguely. Donate the stuff to someone in need or something. The pill bottles that had sat on her night table, the Vicks VapoRub . . . those were gone, too.

Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. Twelve syllables of doom. A disease for which there was no cure. A disease that usually hit older people but, occasionally, chose a young person to invade. A disease that had a life expectancy of three to five years.

Lauren had gotten the shorter end of that.

Their bed was made perfectly, same as Lauren used to make it, before the small task took too much out of her. He always tried to make it as precisely as she did and never quite managed, something that made her smile. The cute, useless little flowered pillows were in place.

It was as if she’d just been here.

Josh grabbed some jeans and an MIT sweatshirt and changed into them. In the kitchen, he pulled the tulips out of their vase and threw them in the trash, then dumped the water and tossed the vase in the recycling bin. He gathered up his suit, shirt, socks, even his boxers, and carried them up to the rooftop garden that had come with this apartment. For once, he didn’t think about how much he hated heights. The bite of cold, damp air was welcome.

A seagull sat on one of the posts of the iron railing that encircled the garden, watching him, its feathers ruffling in the breeze.

He turned on the gas grill, all burners, as high as they’d go.

Then he burned the clothes he’d worn to his wife’s funeral, and stood there long after they were ash and the snow began to fall.

4

Lauren

Three months left

November 20

Dear Dad,

How’s it going in the Great Beyond? Please tell me you can fly. I’m going to be very disappointed if I can’t fly. Also, I’d like to be able to save people. You know those reports where someone says, “I don’t know how that truck missed me! I thought I was a goner!”? I’m hoping that’s what we get to do, because how cool would that be?

 We’re back from the Cape, more or less. It gets really quiet up there in the off-season, and I was getting a little melancholy and cold. Walking on the beach isn’t as fun if the wind knocks you backward, you know? I mean, it’s thrilling, but it’s exhausting, too.

 Sebastian turned four, Dad! Josh and I gave him the biggest Tonka truck we could find, one that made lots of beeping and grinding noises, and he LOVED it. Octavia is six months old and has two tiny teeth, sharper than razor blades, but so cute. The drool that spills out of that kid’s mouth should be gathered to end drought in small countries. Honestly. I had no idea a human could produce that much drool.

 Mom’s doing fine. You know. She’s wicked sad and doesn’t understand the philosophy of “keep on the sunny side.” Still, you’ll be happy to know I have dinner with her every Tuesday night, just the two of us, because . . . well, because Mom is going to need these times to look back on.

 After this summer on the Cape, I took a turn for the worse. It’s not awful, but . . . well, the IPF is really undeniable now. I’m on oxygen almost all the time, and I shamelessly nap at work almost every afternoon in the office Bruce set up for me. I work from home a lot, too. To my own credit, I’m not slacking off. I’m leaving my mark, Dad, just like you told me to. But a cold laid me low for two weeks, and I was in the hospital for five days with another lung collapse and mild pneumonia. At least I didn’t need intubation this time. Listen. You and Mom shouldn’t have skimped on my lungs. You should’ve sprung for the Usain Bolt model. These are bargain-basement lungs.