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.

A woman answered instead. Eli's wife, Priya. She stepped onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind her. "Whatever this is, my husband doesn't need it," she said quietly. "He's spent ten years getting better. Why are you here?"