I was buttoning up my coat to go to my husband’s funeral when my grandson burst into the garage, pale as a ghost. “Grandma, don’t start the car! Please don’t!”

“Don’t answer, Grandma,” Lucas said, almost pleading. “Not now.”

Helen stopped. Something in her blood froze.

“Lucas, tell me the truth,” she said, her tone half fear, half demand. “What’s going on?”

He shook his head, his eyes filled with a fear far too mature for his fifteen years.

“If you had started that car, we wouldn’t be here talking,” he finally answered.