“So how long do you think it’ll be?” he says. “Before the next hurricane comes along to take you home.”“Can I tell you my biggest fear?” I say.“Yes. Tell me.”“That it will be a very windless four years.”

“Someday I'll tell you all of it," I say."I'd like that," he says."No," I say. "I promise you won't.”

“Tell me about yourself.""Myself?" He looks confused."Yes," I say, patting the mattress."You know all there is to know," he says, sitting beside me."Not true," I say. "Where were you born? What's your favourite season? Anything.""Here. Florida," he says. "I remember a woman in a red dress with curly brown hair. Maybe she was my mother, I'm not sure. And summer. What about you?" The last part is said with a smile. He smiles so infrequently that I consider each one a trophy.”

“I wanted to be rid of him," he says. He raises my chin with his thumb. "But not if it meant being rid of you. I climbed in beside you, and you put your head in my lap. You can't think I would have left you like that.""Look what it got you," I say."Tea in bed and you here in front of me," he says. "It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.”

“Do you know what my father used to say?" I ask her. "He used to say that songs had a heart. A crescendo that can make all your blood rush from your head to your toes.”

“I've done it all before, I tell myself, and I can do it again. Trust is the strongest weapon.”

“He needs to grieve," I tell her. "He'll come find us when he's ready.""Rose is never going to be dead," she says, too disheartened to sound bitter.”