David wiped his own eyes with the back of his hand.

“He’s downstairs,” he said.

“In the garden off the pediatric oncology ward.

The little courtyard on the lower level.” I did not understand, and my confusion must have shown, because David explained, and as he did, something in my chest that had been clenched like a fist began, painfully, to open.

“Clara, for these six months, every single day that he has left this house in his scrubs and told you he was going to work, he has been coming here, to that garden.

Not to operate.