The second was a text message my mother-in-law, Celina, had sent me early that same morning, that I had read twice and set aside as one of her usual dramatic strangenesses.

Take Brucie to stay at your parents’ house for a few days.

Something bad is coming.

I had not done it.

I had been busy, and Celina was always predicting doom, and I had let it pass.

But now I stood in a hospital corridor and turned that sentence over. Something bad is coming. Sent hours before anything bad had happened.