They stayed for six whole days. On the first evening, we had a family dinner and spent the evening talking. I learned that my daughter was an elementary school teacher with thirty fourth graders who loved her. My father spent his time fishing and learning the names of the stars. George had been consulting state parks on how to stay financially solvent. I listened to these revelations in a state of bewilderment, wondering if I was finally experiencing the dissolution of my mind. But that did not matter. If this was what going insane meant—seeing my family, hearing their voices—then going insane was fine with me.
That night, I was careful to stay only on my side of the bed, not to sprawl out like I had become lately been doing. When I heard George's steady sleep-breathing, I wriggled as close as I could to him without actually touching. If I touched him, I feared he would vanish, like all the best things in this world.
