Morris says, hands buried in his white coat. Unlike the new generation of dentists that prefer suits and ties and collared shirts, Dr. Morris still wears a white buttoned coat over his shirt. He’s old-school, and proud of it. “Is he okay?”

I nod once. “A fractured wrist. He says he’s fine.”

“Are you okay?”

I nod again, more slowly, but no, I’m not okay. I’m not sure what I am.

For a moment there is just silence. I want to go see my dad. Not Memorial Day weekend—two weeks from now—but now. I want to go now. Tonight. I need to. I need someone and something that is mine.

“I think I should go see him,” I say quietly. “I would feel better if I could check on him personally.”

Dr. Morris hesitates for just a moment and then nods. “That’s probably a good idea. When would you go?”

“I’d like to go tonight—” I break off, take a quick deep breath. “I’ll be back in the office Monday morning. It’ll mean cancelling the rest of the week’s appointments.”

“I could probably take some of them.”

“You don’t mind?”

He shakes his head. “It’s good that you’re heading up to see your dad. But maybe you shouldn’t rush back. Maybe you need more time up there. Maybe you need more time for you.”

“I’ll schedule some time this summer—”

“I don’t know that you can wait.”

I lift my head and look up into Dr. Morris’ face. His expression is focused, his eyes sad. We are all still sad. I’ve secretly begun to think we, who loved Andrew, will never be happy again. His father, his mother, me . .