I didn’t know any of this.”

She looked at the screen, at her husband’s name printed there beside the date, plain black text on a white field, and some part of her mind kept insisting there had to be another Mark, another family, a clerical error, anything but the obvious thing.

There was no other Mark.

It was his name, on the log, on the day, beside their daughter’s.

Beside her, Irene had drawn her knees up and folded herself deeper into the enormous hoodie she lived in now, until only her face showed.