Two months after divorcing my wife, I found her sitting alone in a hospital hallway wearing a patient gown his

whenever she was anxious. She used to make it at night in our kitchen, wrapping both hands around the mug while steam curled against her face.

I nodded.

“Thank you.”

I went to see my friend, but I barely remember the conversation. Mark was propped against pillows, pale but alert after surgery, and he noticed immediately that something was wrong.

“Man,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “you look worse than I do.”

I tried to smile.

It didn’t work.

“I saw Sophie.”

Mark’s expression softened. “Here?”

I nodded.

“In a patient gown.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “You didn’t know?”

The room seemed to shrink.

I stared at him.

“What?”

Mark closed his eyes briefly. “Ethan…”

“You knew?”

His silence answered for him.

I stepped back from the bed.

“You knew Sophie was sick?”