Room 14 smelled like ginger ale and a body slowly shutting down. Frank Mooney had four days left, maybe five. He grabbed Dana's wrist with the last of his strength. "Find my son," he said. "Bring him here before I go." Dana had volunteered at the hospice for two years and never arranged a visit she didn't believe in. Then a nurse pulled her aside and told her what Frank had done to that boy: three hospital stays before the kid turned twelve.

Dana decided to find the son before she promised Frank anything. The old paperwork gave a name: Eli Mooney, now thirty-one, living two towns over. On her day off she drove there and knocked on his door, not sure what she'd even say.

Eli opened the door. When Dana said the name Frank Mooney, his face went flat and cold. "He's dying," she said. Eli laughed once, with no humor in it. "Good," he said. "Is that all?" But he didn't close the door.

Eli's tone changed. "Did he send money? Did he put me in the will to clear his conscience?" Dana said no, it was only a visit. Eli's jaw tightened. "Then he gets nothing," he said. "Tell him I died first." He shut the door, and Dana drove back with her answer.