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 told Frank the truth. She knew what he'd done, and she wasn't dragging his son into this room without a real reason. "Then give me a reason to give him," Frank said. "Help me write it down before my hands stop working."

Frank couldn't finish the reason. Halfway through he started crying and couldn't stop. "There isn't one," he admitted. "I just don't want to die as the only person who remembers I was ever his dad." Dana wrote that down. It was the first true thing he'd said.