The irony nearly made me laugh.
Rusty had slept beside my wife Eleanor during her final months, refusing food whenever she was in pain, pressing his head against her chest as if absorbing part of her suffering himself. On her last night alive, Eleanor had squeezed my hand and whispered something that never stopped echoing inside me.
“When his time comes,” she said, “don’t let him go somewhere cold and lonely. Take him somewhere beautiful.”
I had promised without hesitation, never imagining the promise would become a deadline.
Outside the clinic, winter wind cut through my coat as Rusty leaned against my leg for balance. My phone rang almost immediately. My son Mark Harper, a federal marshal, rarely called during work hours unless something was wrong.
