Things with Vincent had ended at the same the time the cell phone went dead. For a while they had kept things up over the airwaves—conversations that occurred only, for June, in privacy of eavesdropping strangers in various waiting rooms of the hospital. She had tested the reception in all of them and found the family waiting area in shock trauma the most welcoming—no children, a fish tank, free coffee, tea, and cookies, pillows and blankets; only when bad news was delivered by a doctor or nurse or desk telephone and the wailing and hysteric sobbing was too loud did she abandon her refuge.