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 said nothing to Frank. She went straight to her supervisor and asked to be taken off his case. "I can't be neutral with this one," she admitted. Her supervisor studied her. "Then maybe you're exactly who he needs. But it's your call."