I was wearing a wool coat I had paid too much for and I knelt on wet salted concrete in it and I said, “What?”

“Liver,” he said.

“It’s been coming a while.

They’ve stopped saying anything about options.”

I said I was sorry.

I put my hand on his shoulder, through about four layers.

And he said — and this is verbatim, I have never lost a word of it — “Don’t do that face, Hannah.”

And I said, “What face?”