At sixty-three, I believed I had already faced every kind of fear life could offer.
I had lived through layoffs, rising debts, hospital waiting rooms, and long nights wondering how to keep everything together. Fear, to me, had become familiar—something worn down by time, something manageable.
Or so I thought.
That illusion shattered the moment my granddaughter spoke.
It was a cold October morning in Vancouver, the kind that tricks you into believing everything is calm and ordinary. The streets were lined with gold and red leaves, the air sharp with cedar and rain. I had just dropped my wife, Margaret, at the airport.
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