Connor laughed once, and the sound came out wrong. Melinda shifted beside the stroller. The bottle creaked in her hand.

Five minutes can feel very different depending on what you’re waiting for. In an operating room, five minutes can be an artery clamped, a rhythm restored, a child handed back the possibility of morning.

In a hospital hallway, five minutes can be long enough for a man’s confidence to notice the elevator and start to sweat.

Connor kept talking. He asked if I was still living alone. He asked whether the hospital had finally given me a room, since I was never home anyway. He asked whether I’d learned to be happy for other people.

Every question carried a hook, and I didn’t bite. My hands stayed still around the tablet.

I thought, briefly, about how I used to beg him to come to appointments with me. I thought about Melinda’s hand on my back in the waiting room while Connor said he had a client dinner he couldn’t miss.