I found a little girl abandoned outside the church — hours later, I looked inside her backpack and said, "Dave.

Lauren called on Friday.

I was at my desk at work, door closed, and I picked up on the second ring.

"It's not what they feared," she said.

"Stage one.

Highly treatable.

They caught it early."

I put my hand flat on the desk.

"That's good news," I said.

"That's really good news."

"Yeah." Her voice was unsteady in a way it hadn't been all week.

The steadiness, I realized, had been the fear holding her upright.

Now that the fear had loosened, she didn't quite know what to do with her own relief.

"I've been sitting in the car park for twenty minutes.

I couldn't drive yet."

"Stay there as long as you need to."

"I kept thinking — all week — about what I was going to tell Ava.

How I was going to explain it to her." She let out a breath.

"I had the whole speech ready."

"You don't need it."

"No." A pause.

"Not yet, anyway."

"Lauren."

"Yeah."

"You're going to be okay."

She didn't answer immediately.

When she did, her voice was very quiet.

"I think I might be."

I stayed on the phone with her for another ten minutes.

We didn't talk about anything important — she told me Ava had decided her favorite color was now orange, specifically the orange of the Easter basket, and that she had been carrying it around the flat for three days.

I told her Dave had called Ava on Wednesday evening and they had talked for forty minutes about whether dragons would be friendly or unfriendly if they were real.

Lauren said Ava had strong opinions on the subject.

After we hung up, I sat for a moment at my desk.

Then I called Dave.

"Lauren's results came back," I said.

"Stage one.

They're treating it."

The silence on his end lasted just long enough for me to understand what it meant.

"Thank God," he said.

"Yes."

"Are you — how are you?"

"Relieved," I said.

"For her.

For Ava."

"Me too." A pause.

"Are we okay?

You and me?"

I looked at the closed door of my office.

Through the glass panel I could see my colleagues at their desks, the ordinary afternoon continuing around me.

"We're working on it," I said.

"Is that enough for now?"

"It's enough for now," I said.

I meant it.

We had started couples counseling the week before — Dave had found the therapist, made the appointment, told me about it after it was booked rather than asking, which was the right instinct.

I had gone.

We had sat in two chairs across from a calm woman named Dr.

Osei and Dave had said, out loud, to another person, the specific things he had done and not done.

It had been uncomfortable and necessary and we had driven home without speaking and then ordered takeaway and watched television and it had been, somehow, one of the more honest evenings we'd had in years.

We were not fixed.

We were not back to where we were before Easter Sunday, and I wasn't sure I wanted to go back to where we were before Easter Sunday, because where we were before Easter Sunday had been built on a foundation with a crack running through it that I hadn't known to look for.

What we were building now was something different.

Slower.

More deliberate.

With the crack visible and accounted for.

I wasn't sure yet if it would hold.

But I was still at the table.