As I sat in the airport terminal waiting for my emergency red-eye to Seattle, my phone buzzed.

It was an email with a scanned document from Brenda at the hospice center. I opened it with trembling fingers.

It was a copy of Sarah’s emergency intake form. Greg’s signature was at the bottom. But right above it, under “Current Location of Primary Contact,” Brenda had written a small, handwritten note just for me.

Mrs. Hayes, the note read. I thought you should know before you arrive. He isn’t on a business trip. His public social media shows he’s currently on a honeymoon in the Bahamas with another woman.

The flight from Chicago to Seattle, and then onward to Anchorage, felt like navigating a suffocating, frozen purgatory. My movements were oddly crisp and mechanical, as if someone else’s hands were unzipping my bag and buckling my seatbelt while my actual mind lagged thousands of miles behind.

All the way across the continent, I replayed my last in-person visit with Sarah.