“Helen.”

Her eyes opened slowly, as if the effort cost her something. Recognition flickered, then something that looked like relief mixed with shame. “Simon,” the word came out as barely more than breath. “You’re back.”

I crossed the room, forgetting my knee, forgetting everything except the way she looked—diminished, fragile, wrong. My wife of forty-two years, a woman of fierce intellect and quiet strength, reduced to this.

“What happened? Where’s Chester?”

“Three days,” she whispered. “He promised he’d come back.”