He read it, smiled, and passed it back.

Neither of us said anything about the source of Chloe’s transplant.

It was a question I couldn’t answer from coincidences or wishes, no matter how badly I wanted to.

That evening, I took Hannah’s blanket to the couch and listened to her old voice messages.

In one she complained about a math teacher.

In another she asked me to stop buying the wrong cereal.

In a third she said, “Mom, call me when you can.