I shower in record time and am dressed and staring again at the puffer fish by the time he returns. He rings the doorbell, and I let him in again. “Can we drink it in the car?” I ask.

“Of course.”

I’m silent on the drive, pretending that sipping the coffee takes all my concentration. My heart, though, is beating fast as a hummingbird’s wings. At every stop sign and traffic light, William shoots glances at me. His forehead wrinkles as he looks at me, and several times he seems on the verge of speaking but stops himself. I feel vaguely guilty for making the drive so uncomfortable, but all I can think about is Lost.

One very important facet of Lost.

No one leaves Lost. Not without the Missing Man. Even the dead don’t leave.

If it’s real... The hope hurts so much that I don’t complete the thought.

At the hospital, I sign in at the front desk, and then I ride the elevator up with William. He pushes the button for seven—he has lockers there with spare scrubs for days when he’s in the hospital twenty-four hours. “Lauren...” he begins. He sounds unhappy.

“I’m only worried about my mother,” I lie. “Really. I slept terribly.”

He believes me. The circles under my eyes must be even darker than I thought they were. The elevator doors open, and I manage to smile at him as he exits. The instant the doors shut, I drop the smile, and I pace. The elevator rises. I know I’m clinging to an impossible hope. I’m supposed to be reconciled to my mom’s fate. I thought I had come to terms with it. But here I am, hoping for the impossible. It is far, far more likely that I simply forgot the puffer fish and it entered my subconscious and joined my coma dream.

The elevator reaches Mom’s floor. I wave to the nurses, who jot down my name on the visitors register. I think that this is the first time they’ve seen me in my own clothes. I speed to Mom’s room. I want to burst in with my question. But I check myself at the door. I tiptoe inside.

She’s asleep.

I shift from foot to foot, waiting. She doesn’t show signs of waking up soon. I can’t wake her, even to ask her this. She needs her sleep. Sighing, I sink into the chair. I fidget, watching her. At last, I grab the paper and pencil, and I begin to sketch Peter.

He takes shape through my fingers. I know every curve of his face. I capture the look in his eyes, the sardonic twist of his lips. I fill out his body in broad strokes, trying to catch the flow of his coat. I draw him in a crouch as if on a rooftop, looking at me, his hand extended, as if he’s waiting for me to join him on the roof. Bending over the paper, I focus on his hands. It takes three tries before I’m satisfied with them. I add the swirl of his tattoos to his chest.

“It’s nice to see you draw again,” Mom says from the bed.

I look up. I don’t know how long she’s been watching me.

“Can I see?”

For an instant, I don’t want to show her. This seems personal. But I’ve already told her everything about my dream. She knows about Peter. I go to her bedside and show her.

“Last night didn’t go well?” she asks.

“Last night was great.”

“That’s not a sketch of William,” she points out.

“Mom, I have to ask you an odd question.” I sit on the edge of her bed, careful not to bounce her tubes or wires.

“Yes, William’s father was excellent in bed.”

“Not that question!” I feel my face flame red. I’m positive that uncomfortable questions about last night are coming, and this is far too important to be derailed. “In my room, on my dresser, I found a stuffed puffer fish. Have you seen it before?”

“Stuffed puffer fish? Is this a trick question?”

“I want to know if I’m forgetting things. You know, because of the...” I tap my forehead. “Do you know where it came from?”

“Never seen one.”

“Really? Are you 100 percent certain?”

“Yes. Sounds like a knickknack I’d remember.”

I exhale and then I can’t stop smiling. “How would you like to leave the hospital? Go on a little trip with me?”

She gestures to the IV. “I’m not exactly portable. And, Lauren, no offense, but you don’t know the first thing about nursing. Remember how you fainted when our cat had to get shots?”

“In fairness, that was mostly because of the smell. I swear that vet smelled like formaldehyde.”

“I can’t argue with that. But, Lauren, I told you before, I can’t ask this of you. It’s a lot to take care of me. Too much. You have a life, a job. Have you called them yet? Please tell me you have. Your friends are worried about you.”

“I will, I will,” I lie. I push forward before she can call me on the lie. She can read me better than anyone. “I’ll talk to Dr. Barrett and...”

“Talk to me about what?” asks a familiar, smooth voice from the doorway.

I look up and wish I weren’t holding a sketch of Peter. I quickly put it down. He sees my movement.

“You drew again. Great.” He looks at Mom. “I saw some of your daughter’s artwork last night. You’re right. She has real talent.” He checks the chart that hangs from the foot of Mom’s bed. “How are you feeling today? Can you rate your pain?”

“I continue to think that’s the stupidest question ever,” Mom says. “It’s random. How do I know what a four is? How do you know that my four corresponds to anyone else’s four?”

“Humor me.”

“Four.”

“Great.”

“Or 4.2.”

“Can she be moved?” I ask, cutting into their banter. “Can I...can I take her home?” It isn’t home that I want to take her, but I can’t explain that. Even voicing my fragile belief out loud would, I’m afraid, make it shatter. And make them think I’m crazy. If she can be moved, I’ll drive her out as far as a tank of gas will take us, until we’re lost. And if it fails, we’ll come back home. At the very least, we’d have one more journey together. A road trip, kind of like we took when we moved to Maine. I remember the hours and hours in the car, pointing out license plates from every state, making up stories of the lives of the people in the cars, stopping at every kitschy tourist trap we saw. It took six weeks, and they were six of the best weeks of my childhood. We ate every regional fast food we found, and we slept in several motels that were too dingy for the cockroaches to approve of them. We even tried camping, which was a dismal failure when I insisted on commenting on every little sound I heard. Ended up sleeping inside the car, crammed in with all our stuff.

He’s surprised and then guarded. “It would be...difficult.”

My heart rises. “But not impossible?”

Mom is frowning at me. “You don’t want this, Lauren.”

“Yes. I do. You don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here.” I jump out of my chair and pace around the room. “Of course we should make this happen. How do we make this happen? Is there paperwork I have to fill out? How do we move her? Can she come in my car...I mean, her car...if I take the IV and the catheter? I can wheel her in a wheelchair...”

“Lauren. Lauren.” Mom cuts through my babble. “You don’t want this. Listen to me. Lauren, I am going to die. You don’t want me to die in our home with you as my nursemaid. You’ll blame yourself when it’s only what’s inevitable. It’s best if I’m here. It’s better now that you’re here with me.”

“You hate it here, Mom,” I say. “At home...” I can’t expound on the glories of home. I’m not planning on taking her home. If Lost exists...

It does.

The puffer fish.

The menu.

The little noose that Tiffany made.

With the sketch of Peter in my hand, I can’t look at William. I try to seem as if I’m focusing only on Mom. “Let me try.”

She nods. There are tears caught in her eyelashes.

“I’ll see what I can do,” William says, which sounds like a promise to me.

I am given a lot of pamphlets, and a nurse trains me to change Mom’s IV and catheter. I help bathe her and shift her position to avoid bedsores. The training is rudimentary and rushed, and I feel woefully unprepared. She will have hospice care coming into the apartment, I’m told. Insurance will cover most of it. This isn’t an uncommon thing. Lots of people go home to die.