The woman stood when we came back to the consultation room.

She looked a little younger than me, though the exhaustion around her eyes made it difficult to guess.

Her husband rose beside her.

“Grace,” Kenneth said quietly, “this is Clara Miller, and this is her husband, Mark.

Their daughter is Chloe.”

The name Mark almost startled me.

There had been a Mark in Hannah’s class who used to deliver science-fair projects late and blame the bus driver.

An absurd memory, but grief brought up strange things.