I should explain that I did not see Warren first.

June did.

We were standing near a glass case filled with model spacecraft.

She tugged my sleeve and whispered, “Mom, that man has my eyebrows.”

I looked up.

Warren Hale stood thirty feet away beside Priya Lindqvist, who was no longer a resident but an established physician in her own right.

He was older than I remembered.

His hair had silver at the temples, and something in his shoulders suggested years of carrying too many responsibilities without putting them down.