I opened the door expecting a stranger. Instead, two paramedics stood on the porch, and behind them Tiffany, pale and shaking, gripping her purse with both hands. “Mrs. Dalton,” one of them said quickly, “your husband collapsed in the parking garage downtown. He kept repeating your name.” My knees nearly gave way. Tiffany stepped forward, tears already falling. “Please,” she whispered. “Did you give him anything this morning?” I could not answer.

She pulled a folded paper from her purse and pressed it into my hand. It was a hospital letter with Kevin’s name across the top. The first line was a diagnosis I could barely read, and beneath it, a warning about dehydration. My ears began to ring. The pharmacy bag on the table suddenly looked different. The label bore my name, but the medicine inside was not mine.