“Thank you,” I say.

Carl leans back, the wood of the bench creaking with his weight. He folds his hands at his chest as he studies me. I remain frozen, my thumbs locked together, folded over my clasped hands. I’m willing him to give me answers—I’m hoping it gives me some sort of clue.

“Come with me,” he says, suddenly leaning forward and getting to his feet. I stand in response and follow him into his house, the screen door slamming closed behind us.

We wind through a formal living room and dining area that I doubt has been used since Emma’s mother died. I doubt it’s been cleaned since then, either, the rings of dust deep around coasters and lamps. I trail Carl to a small space in the back of the house that looks like a den, an old desk taking up the center, and boxes piled around the walls. The small dog comes into the room behind us, and when Carl sits in the chair, bending down to pull out a low drawer in the desk, the dog rushes over to him, jumping on his lap.

“Teddy, not now,” he says, scooping him and dropping him on the floor. He glances up at me. “Hazard of the job,” he smirks. I had forgotten—Emma’s father is a dogcatcher.

I bend down, and Teddy scurries up to me, putting his front paws on my knees. I scratch at his chin.

“I always wanted a dog,” I say, chuckling slightly.

“You want this one?” Carl says, I think only half kidding.

I rub my thumbs behind Teddy’s ears, watching his tail wag, until Carl leans back again in his chair, a file folder in his hands. He lays it on the desk, flipping it open, nodding for me to look.

I move to his side as he rolls his chair out a little to make room for me. When I begin to slide out the clippings and photos, my stomach lurches. The first thing I notice is a photo that appears to have been printed out at home—Emma in a hospital gown. Her hair is just as it was the last time I saw her before Lake Crest, her eyes look happy—hopeful even—though maybe a little sunken in, and her mom is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed with her.

“Did Emma…donate bone marrow or something?” I feel insensitive asking the question, but I don’t understand what I’m looking at, and the potential of what it might mean terrifies me to the point that I have to kneel next to the desk, no longer able to stand.

“No,” Carl chuckles softly, picking the photo up and pulling his glasses out to study it closer. “No…this was the day Emma got her heart.”

“Her…I’m sorry…” I stumble with my words.

“I didn’t think she told you. She was funny like that. I think it was her age, wanting to prove how normal she was, what she could do. I get it…she just wanted people to treat her normal,” he says.

“I’m sorry, Carl. I’m…I’m not following. Emma…she needed a heart? Was it the accident? Did something happen?” My mind is racing with dozens of questions. I understand getting cut and bleeding; I understand how burns and bruises heal. If this were mechanics, I would be able to get what Emma’s father was saying, but this is Emma’s world—medicine and biology and a broken body. I don’t understand, and I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault, and that’s why her parents never told her where I was.

My head is sweating, and I tug my hat off and run my hand through my hair, huffing for air. I fall back on my heels and land on my ass, bending my knees up and staring straight ahead.

“Andrew, it’s okay. She’s okay now, and no…this wasn’t from the accident,” he says. I barely register him, but nod in response.

“What…what was wrong with her?” I ask.

He sighs, sliding some photos around in the folder before pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to me. I read a few words along the top, something about New Hampshire Hospital, left ventricles, medications. It’s dated the year before I met Emma.

“Emma was born with hypoplastic left heart syndrome. Basically, half of her heart worked, and the other half was broken. She had three surgeries before we turned to the transplant. That’s when you met her—when she was waiting on the list. We moved here for a doctor. Dogcatchers and phone-bank workers—we’re not exactly rolling in the dough,” he says, his lip inching up on one side in a half smile. I reflect it with one of my own. I don’t say it out loud, but turns out young men with juvenile records don’t make a lot of dough either. I’m hopeful that will change, though.

“This doctor, Dr. Wheaton, she performed Emma’s surgery for free. But we still had to wait for her to come up on the list,” he says, his eyes wandering back to the folder. I slide the diagnosis sheet up, and he folds it in with the other papers. “Her heart finally came…about a month after that accident you two had.”