“Another?" the bartender asked.
Emma looked at the single lime rind in her glass and shook her head. “Just the check."
“You celebrating or forgetting?"
“Filing," she said. “Now I'm just… finishing email."
Her phone buzzed before he could nod. **Mrs. Hale**. She hadn't saved the number under *Mom* in three years. Emma stared a second—long enough to decide she could let it ring out and return it later.
She answered. “Mrs. Hale."
Silence, then a breath that had learned how to be brave. “Emma. It's me."
“I know."
“How are you?" the older woman asked automatically, then discarded it. “No—there isn't time for polite. Walter is very sick."
Emma's hand tightened around the sweating glass. “What kind of sick?"
“Cancer," Mrs. Hale said, the word small and enormous. “It… came back where the
