I closed my eyes.
Mr. Halvorsen wasn’t family. Not by blood. But for the past six months, I had been volunteering at the hospital, sitting with patients who had no one else. People at the end of their lives, whose rooms were quiet not because they were resting—but because no one came.
He was one of them.
“Is anyone with him?” I asked.
There was a pause.
“No,” she said softly. “He’s alone.”
I looked at the time. If I left now, I could still make it to the game. I could be in the stands when my daughter ran onto that field, hear the crowd, be part of the moment she had earned.
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