I had a heart attack on Route 9, and my wife told the hospital not to bother her because she was at book club. Six days later, she finally came to see me, not because she was afraid I might die, but because her card stopped working. By then, my bed was empty, and the envelope taped to the rail was the first real conversation I had ever had with my family.
They found my truck on the shoulder of Route 9 with the engine still running, the hazard lights blinking against a gray November sky that smelled like wet leaves, diesel exhaust, and somebody’s woodstove burning two towns over. My coffee had tipped across the dashboard and into the seams by the radio. The cup…
