I thought about Henry, of course. During one of our talks, my father had even brought him up. I had evaded the question, but I still found myself turning over our time together in my head. Usually I was pretty sure I’d made the right decision. But sometimes—like when Wendy stopped by and was sitting with Warren on the porch, and I’d watch her lean her head against his shoulder, comforting him, and my brother let himself be comforted—I wondered if I actually had done the right thing by ending it with Henry. There was a part of me that was afraid that I’d dressed it up and called it a new name, but that it was my same flaw, rearing its ugly head once again. I was still running when things got too real—I’d just learned how to do it, at last, by staying in the same place.

Even though I knew when the meteor shower was coming—that morning’s Pocono Record had even done a special feature on the best time to try and catch it—it still took me by surprise. Since it was predicted to arrive an hour before dawn—when even I had usually gone to sleep for the night—I’d set my alarm. When the alarm beeped four thirty, waking me but not Gelsey, I’d switched it off and contemplated just going back to sleep. But my grandfather had promised it would be something extraordinary, and I felt like I’d put in enough time that summer looking up at the stars—I might as well see them deliver.

I pulled on my sweatshirt and tiptoed out of the room, even though I’d learned by now that my sister was one of the world’s deepest sleepers. I headed into the hallway and nodded at Paul, who was on duty, who gave me a small wave back. My dad was sleeping, his breath rattling in his throat. I looked at him for a long moment, and Paul met my eyes and gave me a sympathetic smile before turning back to his book. Things had gotten much worse in the last two days. We’d stopped talking about my father’s condition, how he was doing. We were mostly just trying to get through each day. And though my father was still with us, the last coherent conversation he’d been able to have was several days ago—and that had been just a moment with my mother before he got confused again.

I headed outside to the porch, looked up at the sky, and gasped.

The whole night sky above me was filled with streaks of light. I had never seen a single falling star before, and they were whizzing across the vast expanse of sky—one, then another, then two at once. The stars had never seemed quite so bright, and it was like they were surrounding me, much closer than I’d ever seen them, and a few of them were just on a joyride across the sky. And as I watched it unfolding, I knew that I didn’t want to be watching it alone.

I hurried back inside, not sure how long meteor showers lasted and not wanting him to miss any of it. “Paul,” I said quietly, and he looked up from his book and raised his eyebrows at me.

“You okay?” he asked.

“There’s a meteor shower outside,” I said. “It’s going on right now.”

“Oh, yeah,” Paul said, yawning and picking up his book again. “I think I read something about that in the paper.”

“The thing is… ,” I said, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I could practically feel my anxiety building. I felt like time was running out, right in front of me, and that I needed to get my father outside as fast as possible. “I want my dad to see it.” Paul looked up at me again, frowning. “Would that be possible?”

“Taylor,” he said, shaking his head. “I just don’t think it makes much sense.”

“I know,” I said, surprising myself—and Paul, by the look on his face. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it. Just for a moment or two. You can carry him outside, or I can wake Warren up. I just…” My voice trailed off. I had no idea why I thought this was so crucial. It’s not like I believed that meteor showers had some magic healing properties. I just wanted my dad to see something so extraordinary. I hated that all he saw, every day, was our living room. I wanted him to breathe in, labored or not, some of that pine-scented night air. I was searching for the words to express this, when Paul stood up.

“For five minutes,” he said. “And there’s no guarantee that he’ll even wake up.”

“I know,” I said. “Thank you.” Paul got up and unfolded the wheelchair, while I crossed over to my father’s bedside, standing right by his head. His breathing was still labored, with a rattling to it that had shown up in the last two days, and which terrified me. It made every breath he was taking seem painful, and I hated to hear it. “Daddy,” I whispered, touching his shoulder through the blanket, shocked by how bony it felt, how fragile he seemed. “Rise and shine. Up and Adam.”

There was a hitch in his breathing, and for a moment I panicked, but then my dad’s eyes opened, those blue eyes he’d given to only me. He looked at me, but he’d been looking at us, unseeing, lately, so I didn’t know if this meant anything. But then his eyes focused on my face and one corner of his mouth pulled up in a tiny smile. “Tayl,” he said, his voice thick and slurred. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then said, his eyes starting to drift closed again. “Hi, kid. Whas news?”

I smiled even as I could feel tears prickling my eyes. “Want to see some stars?” I asked him. I looked over and saw that Paul was standing by with the wheelchair. I nodded at him and stepped away. With practiced skill, Paul lifted my father from the bed as though he weighed nothing and settled him into the chair. I grabbed the blanket from the bed and tucked it around him, and then Paul pushed him out to the front porch. I followed, and was thrilled to see that the falling stars were still falling. That this event, which happened for a brief window just a few times a year, hadn’t passed us by.

Paul stopped my dad’s chair in the center of the porch and put the brake on, then looked up himself. “Wow,” he murmured. “I see what you mean.”

I sat down next to my dad’s chair and touched his shoulder. “Look,” I said, pointing up. His head was resting on the back of the chair, but his eyes opened and looked up.

I watched him watching the stars above, as streaks of light flew past. His eyes were focused, following one as it cut its path across the huge, dark canvas of the sky. “Stars,” he said in a voice that was clearer than he’d yet used that night, a voice that was laced with wonder.

I nodded, and moved closer to him. His breath was rattling again, and I could feel Paul standing nearby, waiting to bring my dad inside. But I picked up my dad’s hand where it was hanging over the wheel and took it in mine. It was too bony, but it was still huge, engulfing my own. The hand that had taught me to tie my shoes and hold a pencil correctly and had held mine carefully when we were crossing the street, making sure to keep me safe.