When Lane opened the glass door, a seal broke and a little hiss of air was released. Inside, there was a lot of beeping and very bright lights and so much medical equipment, it was as if she were in an operating room.

His momma seemed so tiny in the bed, her body shrinking as the tumors in her grew bigger and stronger—and his first thought, as he went over to her, was that she would hate the way her hair looked. Her short weave was messy, the bob’s ends all this way and that, and he did what he could to straighten it.

His next thought was that she was never coming home.

She was going to die here, in this bed.

How could she not?

She looked so ill: Her eyes were closed, but he could tell they had sunk back into her skull, and her cheeks were so hollow, it was as if the bones were going to break through the flesh. There were countless wires going under the top of the johnny she had on—and a port, too, pumping who knew what into some kind of vein or another. There were more tubes going into her arm. And still others, under the sheets.

You never realized how much the human body did on its own until you had to try and re-create its functions via external means.

He glanced around for a chair and found one all the way over in the corner, a non-priority afterthought for a patient whose continued existence was so iffy, visitors were not what people were worried about.

Bringing the thing around, he sat down and took her hand.

“Hello, Momma,” he said as he rubbed his thumb back and forth.

He couldn’t decide whether she felt warm or cool, and for some reason, the fact that his mind wouldn’t vote one way or the other made him so frustrated, he wanted to scream.

“Momma, what can I do for you? Do you need me to . . .”

Lane thought about that Mercedes he’d gotten her just this past winter. She had been riding around in an old POS without four-wheel drive—the same car that she had had for, like, a decade, which she had stubbornly refused to replace—and an ice storm had struck, one that had been so bad, it had made the news all the way up north. As soon as he’d seen the reports, he’d called the local dealership, chosen an E350 4MATIC in U of C red, and had the sedan delivered.

Oh, how she’d bitched about it to him. Had maintained the thing was too expensive and flashy. Had insisted she was going to return it.

Except then she’d taken the car that Sunday to Charlemont Baptist and proudly parked it in the lot, telling people her boy had gotten it for her so she’d be safe.

Miss Aurora had never thanked him for the gift, at least not verbally—and that was her way. The special love she had always had for him had been in her eyes, though. And so, too, in her secret delight.

“Is there anything left undone?” he whispered as he stared into that face he knew so well. “Can you talk to me? Tell me what you need me to do before you go?”

On some level, he knew he should probably be focusing on all kinds of positive things, like how she was surely going to come out of this, and return to Easterly, and go back to ordering him and everyone else around. But he had of late become a fan of reality over optimism, and in his heart, he was well aware that this was the end—

As his phone started to ring, he reached into his inner chest pocket and silenced it.

“I just want to do right by you. Make sure everything is as you wish.”

Miss Aurora had never taken a husband or had children of her own, but there were so many family members of hers in town, her brothers and sisters all married with kids for the most part—and then there was her extended network of cousins, friends, and the whole congregation at Charlemont Baptist. He wanted to be certain they all had a chance to say a proper good-bye—

“Lane?”

Jerking up, he wrenched around. “Tanesha. Hey. Hi.”

He got to his feet and embraced the woman in the white coat and the stethoscope. Tanesha Nyce, daughter of Charlemont Baptist’s Reverend Nyce, was in her late twenties and just completing her residency—and she had been an incredible source of comfort ever since Miss Aurora had been admitted.

As they pulled back, Tanesha smiled. “I’m glad you’re here. She’s listening to everything you say, you know.”

Clearing his throat, he tried to look casual as he went over and sat on the chair again. The truth was, he felt wobbly on his pins and didn’t want to fall over.

Because he couldn’t not ask. And Tanesha wasn’t going to speak anything but the truth.

It was not that Miss Aurora’s doctors had withheld anything from him, it was just . . . it was time to find out how long they had—and somehow, hearing that no-doubt grim news from Tanesha seemed more palatable.

“So how are we doing?” he said.

Dimly, he was aware that he was rubbing his thighs, and he deliberately stopped his incessant palms.

“Well, let’s see.” Tanesha went across and smiled down at Miss Aurora. “How are we today, ma’am? It’s Reverend Nyce’s daughter, Tanesha. I’m just stopping by to say hello as I get off shift.”

Her tone was light and casual, but her eyes behind her glasses were the absolute opposite as they scanned all the screens around the bed. And as she studied the numbers and patterns and graphs, Lane focused on her. Was she the reason Maxwell had finally come back to town?

Or had Max returned to help Edward kill their father?

Tanesha and Maxwell had always lit up a room whenever they were together, but the pastor’s daughter and the Bradford family’s rebel had never taken their attraction any further than sparks—at least as far as Lane knew.

Then again, as Reverend Nyce’s daughter, would you really want to bring that home?

“How is she?” Lane repeated.

Tanesha patted Miss Aurora’s hand. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow. You take care, Miss Toms, and get yourself some rest.”

When Tanesha nodded at the door, Lane got up and followed her out—and noted that the doctor waited until things were fully shut before she spoke.

In a hushed voice, Tanesha said, “I’m sure her physicians have been updating you.”

“I don’t remember much of what they’ve said, to be honest. I’m sorry—it’s just been . . . a blur. Plus I trust you more.”

Tanesha stared at him as if assessing how much he could take. “May I be blunt?”

“Yes, and I’ll thank you for it.”

“You might want to hold the gratitude until I’m finished.” Tanesha made a circle around on her right side, just under her ribs. “As you probably know, the tumor in the pancreas is quite large, highly abnormal, and has not responded to her current treatment. The metastasis in the liver is the same, and they have found further tumors in the superior mesenteric vessels. But even more problematic is this sickle-cell crisis. The chemotherapy kicked it off, and it hit her so hard and so fast—and is continuing to cause problems with her spleen and other major organs. There’s just a lot of bad things going on for her right now, and as her healthcare proxy, I think you’re going to have some decisions to make in the next day or so.”

“Decisions?” As she nodded, he looked through the glass door at his momma. “What kind of decisions? Like to try a different chemotherapy or . . . ?”

“As in, when it’s time to withdraw life support.”

“Jesus.” He rubbed his head. “I mean, I thought you all were trying to bring her out of this.”

“Her doctors are. And I’ve followed her case every step of the way.” A kind hand was placed on his forearm. “But if you want me to be truly honest, I think it’s time to gather the family, Lane. And be efficient about it.”

“I’m not ready. I can’t . . . I’m not ready for this.”

“I’m so sorry. I truly am. She is a very special person, who is loved by so many. My heart is breaking.”

“Mine, too.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not ready to lose her.”

Back to the house, he thought. He needed to head back, get Miss Aurora’s old-fashioned, handwritten address book, and start calling people.

This was the last thing he could do for his momma while she was alive and he’d be damned if he was going to let her down.