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.

Nobody answered. A neighbor leaned over the fence. "Eli? He's at the garage on Fifth. He owns it now." Dana drove over and found him under a car. When he rolled out and heard his father's name, his wrench hit the floor. "I'm not going," he said at last. "But thank you for asking me instead of just deciding for me. He never once did that."