A lie. He knew exactly how long it had been.

"Yes," he answered. "What happened?"

"I don't have all the details, sir. I just know she's en route to us now."

He looked at his watch. If he moved quickly, he could make the 5:20 ferry and be at the hospital in a little more than an hour. "I'll be there as quickly as I can."

He didn't realize that he hadn't said goodbye until the phone buzzed in his ear. He hung up and tossed the handset on the bed.

He grabbed his wallet and picked up the phone again. As he reached for a sweater, he dialed a number. It rang enough times to remind him that it was early in the morning.

"H-hello?"

"Corrin. I'm sorry to call you so early, but it's an emergency. Can you pick up the boys and take them to school?"

"What's wrong?"

"I need to go to Sacred Heart. There's been an accident. I don't want to leave the boys alone, but I don't have time to bring them to you."

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Thanks," he said. "I owe you one." Then he hurried down the hallway and pushed open the boys' bedroom door. "Get dressed, boys. Now."

They sat up slowly. "Huh?" Wills said.

"I'm leaving. Corrin is going to pick you up in fifteen minutes."

"But-"

"But nothing. You're going to Tommy's house. Corrin might need to pick you up from soccer practice, too. I don't know when I'll be home."

"What's wrong?" Lucas asked, his sleep-lined face drawing into a worried frown. They knew about emergencies, these boys, and routine comforted them. Lucas most of all. He was like his mother, a nurturer, a worrier.

"Nothing," Johnny said tightly. "I need to get into the city."

"He thinks we're babies," Wills said, pushing the covers back. "Let's go, Skywalker."

Johnny looked impatiently at his watch. It was 5:08. He needed to leave now to make the 5:20 boat.

Lucas got out of bed and approached him, looking up at Johnny through a mop of brown hair. "Is it Marah?"

Of course that would be their worry. How many times had they rushed to see their mom in the hospital? And God knew what trouble Marah was in these days. They all worried about her.

He forgot how wary they could sometimes be even now, almost four years later. Tragedy had marked them all. He was doing his best with the boys, but his best wasn't really enough to compensate for their mother's loss. "Marah's fine. It's Tully."

"What's wrong with Tully?" Lucas asked, looking scared.

They loved Tully so much. How many times in the last year had they begged to see her? How many times had Johnny made some excuse? Guilt flared at that.

"I don't have all the details yet, but I'll let you know what's up as soon as I can," Johnny promised. "Be ready for school when Corrin gets here, okay?"

"We're not babies, Dad," Wills said.

"You'll call us after soccer?" Lucas asked.

"I will."

He kissed them goodbye and grabbed his car keys off the entry table. He looked back at them one last time-two identical boys who needed haircuts, standing there in their boxer shorts and oversized T-shirts, frowning with worry. And then he went out to his car. They were eleven years old; they could be alone for ten minutes.

He got into his car, started the engine, and drove down to the ferry. On board, he stayed in his car, tapping his finger impatiently on the leather-covered steering wheel for the thirty-five-minute crossing.

At precisely 6:10, he pulled up into the hospital's parking lot and parked in the artificial brightness thrown down by a streetlamp. Sunrise was still a half hour away, so the city was dark.

He entered the familiar hospital and strode up to the information desk.

"Tallulah Hart," he said grimly. "I'm family."

"Sir, I-"

"I want an update on Tully's condition, and I want it now." He said it so harshly the woman bounced in her seat as if a slight current had charged through her body.

"Oh," she said. "I'll be right back."

He walked away from the reception desk and began pacing. God, he hated this place, with its all-too-familiar smells.

He sank into an uncomfortable plastic chair, tapping his foot nervously on the linoleum floor. Minutes ticked by; each one unraveled his control just a little.

In the past four years, he'd learned how to go on without his wife, the love of his life, but it had not been easy. He'd had to stop looking back. The memories simply hurt too much.

But how could he not look back here, of all places? They'd come to this hospital for surgery and chemotherapy and radiation; they'd spent hours together here, he and Kate, promising each other that cancer was no match for their love.

Lying.

When they'd finally faced the truth, they'd been in a room, here. In 2006. He'd been lying with her, holding her, trying not to notice how thin she'd become in the year of her life's fight. Beside the bed, Kate's iPod had been playing Kelly Clarkson. Some people wait a lifetime ... for a moment like this.

He remembered the look on Kate's face. Pain had been a liquid fire in her body; she hurt everywhere. Her bones, her muscles, her skin. She took as much morphine as she'd dared, but she'd wanted to be alert enough so that her kids wouldn't be afraid. I want to go home, she'd said.

When he'd looked at her, all he'd been able to think was: She's dying. The truth came at him hard, bringing tears to his eyes.

"My babies," she'd said quietly and then laughed. "Well, they're not babies anymore. They're losing teeth. It's a dollar, by the way. For the tooth fairy. And always take a picture. And Marah. Tell her I understand. I was mean to my mom at sixteen, too."

"I am not ready for this conversation," he'd said, hating his weakness. He'd seen the disappointment in her gaze.

"I need Tully," she'd said then, surprising him. His wife and Tully Hart had been best friends for most of their lives-until a fight had torn them apart. They hadn't spoken for the past two years, and in those years, Kate had faced cancer. Johnny couldn't forgive Tully, not for the fight itself (which had, of course, been Tully's fault), or for her absence when Kate needed her most.

"No. After what she did to you?" he'd said bitterly.

Kate had rolled slightly toward him; he could see how much it hurt her to do so. "I need Tully," she'd said again, softer this time. "She's been my best friend since eighth grade."