She and Robert had argued in an office lobby similar to the one where she now waited for Wren to finish her counseling appointment. Kit had asked him to lower his voice—please—especially in front of other patients. They could speak to the counselor privately about what kind of addiction treatment programs might be most helpful for their son. But Robert had heard of such programs, and it was a waste of money, he said. Perfectly normal for teenagers to experiment. He had experimented when he was Micah’s age and hadn’t suffered any long-term detriment. She was hovering and controlling, Robert said, and maybe if she weren’t so judgmental and condemning—maybe if she would just back off and give Micah space to figure things out, and yes, fail if he needed to, why did she think she could prevent that?—he would outgrow this rebellious phase, just as Robert had.

There was no arguing her husband out of his position, especially when the counselor “took her side” and agreed that more aggressive treatment, which could also help address Micah’s underlying depression, would be a prudent course of action. Robert refused to meet with the counselor again, and his disparaging remarks about therapy in general and Micah’s therapist in particular—which he routinely made in front of their son—severed Micah’s already tenuous commitment to his appointments. Kit couldn’t force him to go. She’d tried and failed.

Wren, thankfully, did not object to going to her appointments, and her counselor had wisely set multiple dates in advance so Wren wouldn’t have to exert herself in making phone calls. All Kit needed to do was remind her when it was time to go and drive her there. And reassure Jamie that yes, Wren was meeting with Dawn. Jamie had learned not to press for specifics, much as she longed for them. Kit understood the longing. And the fear.

She flipped through a magazine, looking at photos. On their way out, she would ask the receptionist if she could have some of the outdated ones to cut up for prayer collages for the retreat session that night. Wren would need to go with her to New Hope so she wouldn’t be alone at the house, and while Kit led the retreat, Wren would probably sleep in one of the guestrooms. Not the one where Casey was supposed to stay, though. Kit had closed and locked that door, thinking it would be better for her if she couldn’t access that space. But sometimes Kit found her in the chapel, resting her head on the chair where he had left his goodbye letter. Vincent had painted a friend’s empty chair, Wren had said in one of her more lucid moments. Empty chairs made her cry.

Kit let her mind drift to their old kitchen table, Micah’s chair pulled out at precisely the angle he had left it. At least, she thought it was the way he’d left it. There had been no memorable last supper together, only an ordinary dinner with their forks scraping against their plates, the sound amplified by the absence of conversation. If she had known she would find her beloved boy the next morning, cold in his bed, what last words would she have tried to speak to him? What words would she have begged him to speak to her?

At least Wren had Casey’s handwritten note—his intentions a mystery, yes, but his love and regret unmistakable. That was a gift.

Dawn’s office door opened and Wren emerged, her dark, unwashed hair partially covered by Casey’s beanie. If Kit could persuade her to relinquish the hat for an hour, she could wash it for her. Wren probably wasn’t aware of the odor emanating from her clothes or body. She hardly had energy to change a shirt, let alone shower, poor thing.

“I’ll see you next week,” Dawn said, her hand resting on Wren’s shoulder. If Wren replied, audibly or otherwise, Kit missed it. But for a moment her own gaze met Dawn’s, and Dawn acknowledged her with a nod, as if to