That was the entire exchange.

I spent the afternoon at home learning how little a disappointed adult’s schedule mattered next to a sick child.

A few days later she sent a photograph, not of the boys’ faces, but of a drawing Henry had made.

Four small astronauts stood on a blue moon, wearing oversized helmets.

A fifth figure hovered far away in a spacecraft.

“He asks questions about you,” she wrote.

“Not always out loud.” I stared at the distant astronaut and wondered whether he was supposed to be me.