My mother sat in a high-backed armchair, staring at a muted television. My heart stuttered against my ribs. She was skeletal. The fierce, independent woman who used to hike three miles a day looked as though she’d aged a decade in a matter of months, her cheekbones jutting against pale, papery skin bruised by mere shadows.

But the detail that stopped me was her clothing. It had to be seventy degrees outside, and the air conditioning made the house colder still, and my mother was wearing a thick forest-green wool winter coat, buttoned all the way to her chin.

“Mom?” I whispered, dropping my bag and kneeling beside her chair.

She turned her head slowly, as if it hurt to move. Her eyes, milky and wide, took a long moment to focus on my face. When they did, they flooded with tears.

Her chin trembled, but she didn’t reach for me. She kept her arms tucked rigidly against her sides, buried deep in the coat’s pockets.

“Claire,” she breathed, the word breaking in the middle.