And Addie forces herself to ask, “How long do you have left?” Henry swallows. “A month.” The words land like a blow on tender skin. “A little more,” he says. “Thirty-six days.” “It’s after midnight,” Addie whispers. Henry exhales. “Then thirty-five.” Her grip tightens around his, and his tightens back, and they hold on until it hurts, as if any minute someone might try to pull them apart, as if the other might slip free, and disappear.
