Jane weighed barely ninety pounds. They changed her IV drip every four hours. She had moments of lucidity in the days before she died that rose up like volcanic islands within a vast tropical sea of narcotized pain. Jack Shott stalked the hallways of Sloan-Kettering, blundering into things, snapping at staff, failing even to comprehend his emotions much less deal with them; and Sunny went out sometimes to try to pacify him.

What did you want from me? Jane whispered the last time we were alone, her frail hand locked on my wrist like a metallic claw. What could you ever, ever have wanted?

A few fat, blood-red rose petals still lay scattered over the medical detritus on her bedside table although the bouquet itself had been removed. There was no answer for questions such as hers.