Nobody said anything. It was the kind of quiet that felt worse than yelling.

“So nobody here lost a thing,” she said. “The only person who lost anything is me. Because now I owe the bank. And with my diagnosis, at my age, I don’t think I’m going to live long enough to pay it back.”

She picked up her purse. She didn’t wait to be excused.

I never knew she was sick. None of us did. She’d kept that quiet too, the same way she kept everything quiet, the same way she’d kept six families from drowning while we sat in our meetings feeling responsible.

I’m the one who counted the money. I added it up so carefully. I got every number right and the whole thing wrong.

I still have her cardigan button in my coat pocket. It came off in the parking lot when I tried to catch her arm, and she just kept walking, and I never said the thing I should have said. I haven’t been able to make myself drive to her house. I keep telling myself I’ll go tomorrow.

I’ve been telling myself that for three weeks now.