When you enter the bedroom, Jonathan can tell immediately that you've been crying. There are tear tracks on your face, and your breath, usually his anchor during his asthma attacks and like the flow of the river, comes in short little tides of gasps. You're trying to calm down but he doesn't think it's working.

Letting his book fall face-open on his chest, "What's happened, baby?" He’s chewing away at some Nicorette gum, absent-mindedly.