I know he was talking because I remember his jaw moving above me and the sound of his voice, and I have asked him since and he says he does not remember either.

At the doors a woman put her hand flat on his chest, not unkindly, and said that he would be shown where to wait.

And I turned my head on the trolley as far as it would go.

He was standing in the middle of a corridor in a paper cap with my glasses in his hand.

That is the last thing I saw of my husband for seven hours and forty minutes, and it is the picture I had in my head when I woke up, and it is the picture I had in my head when I turned towards the chair by the window and the chair was empty.

Part Twenty-Three: The Doors Closed