Just after midnight, a doctor came into the room and told me that Harry’s femoral artery had been severed. He had lost too much blood. For a brief moment, I wondered if I should go get my old clothes, if I could give some of his blood back to him, if it worked like that. But I was distracted by the next words out of the doctor’s mouth. “He will not make it.” I started gasping for air as I realized that Harry, my Harry, was going to die. “Would you like to say good-bye?” He was unconscious in the bed when I walked into the room. He looked paler than normal, but they had cleaned him up a bit. There was no longer blood everywhere. I could see his handsome face. “He doesn’t have long,” the doctor said. “But we can give you a moment.” I did not have the luxury of panic. So I got into the bed with him. I held his hand even though it felt limp. Maybe I should have been mad at him for getting behind the wheel of a car when he’d been drinking. But I couldn’t ever get very mad at Harry. I knew he was always doing the very best he could with the pain he felt at any given moment. And this, however tragic, had been the best he could do. I put my forehead to his and said, “I want you to stay, Harry. We need you. Me and Connor.” I grabbed his hand tighter. “But if you have to go, then go. Go if it hurts. Go if it’s time. Just go knowing you were loved, that I will never forget you, that you will live in everything Connor and I do. Go knowing I love you purely, Harry, that you were an amazing father. Go knowing I told you all my secrets. Because you were my best friend.” Harry died an hour later. After he was gone, I had the devastating luxury of panic. kk * IN THE MORNING, a few hours after I’d checked into the hotel, I woke up to a phone call.