Part One
At sixty-eight, I thought I understood the difference between an uneasy feeling and an actual disaster.
Then I woke on my son’s wedding morning, reached for my silver hair the way I did every single morning of my life, and touched nothing but smooth, bare skin.
Nothing but smooth, bare skin.
I ran barefoot to the mirror.
My head had been shaved completely while I slept.
A folded note sat on the nightstand, propped where my reading glasses usually waited for me.
