Walter stood beside them in a light jacket, smiling shyly.

Isabel had driven down from Flagstaff.

And several members of the crew gathered around a folding table piled with sandwiches.

There was no champagne and no engraved glass.

Valerie handed me a paper cup of lemonade.

“A toast,” she announced.

I looked at the people who had gathered not to celebrate my fortune or my marriage, but the fact that I was still here.

“To the ones who didn’t leave,” I said.