seventy-eight-year-old widowed neighbor, was lonely in the particular way that makes some people generous.
She took Theo and Wyatt most mornings and refused the money I tried to leave on her counter.
So I began slipping it into her newspaper instead.
Dennis, the hospital social worker, found us a room in family lodging near the oncology unit, the kind of place designed for parents who can’t afford hotels and can’t bear to drive home every night.
I worked outside Kora’s hospital room at two in the morning, laptop balanced on
