A hospital.

In the years since her childhood trauma, Norah had tried twice to get past her fears. At age sixteen, her friend Summer had been hit by a car while crossing a major street, and needed surgery to put the pieces of her shattered leg back together. Norah made it as far as the front entrance before she realized she simply couldn’t get inside. She tried again when the first of her friends had a baby. Determined to conquer her phobia, she charged forth to the elevator bank like a warrior. But she didn’t have the weapons to control her nervous system, and within seconds she was so overcome with dizziness that a passing stranger had to catch her before she hit the hard floor.

Norah paid the driver and got out of the cab in front of Lenox Hill Hospital. She stood before the entrance, staring up at the austere structure. It’s just like any other building, she told herself—bricks and mortar and plaster and steel. There was simply no reason to panic. It was not a death machine. The people inside dedicated themselves to saving lives. She would eventually walk out just as she had walked in.

Besides, Ted was in there. And for all she knew, he could be taking his last breaths. She had to reach him.

But her rational thinking did nothing to stop the impulse her brain sent to her central nervous system, and she was instantly flooded with the primitive survival hormones that had given her ancestors the boost they needed for fight or flight. Only, she couldn’t slay a hospital . . . and there was nowhere to run.

She closed her eyes and pictured Ted, weak and barely conscious, on a hospital bed. She saw him turning to her, his eyes looking as they did in the makeup room. Only, this time she would take his hand. And they would connect before it was too late.

Norah charged through the doors into the lobby. Just keep walking, she told herself. Get on the elevator. Go right upstairs to the room number Didi texted you. Ted had been checked in and scheduled for emergency surgery—with only a fifty percent chance of survival. Norah needed to see him before he went under the knife.

By the time she got into the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor, she was woozy. And as the doors closed, she felt tingling pinpricks in her fingers and the kind of dizziness that could overtake her. There was a minor jolt as the old elevator began its ascent, and a push of nausea sent her to the brink. The room began to go dark and Norah felt so sick that unconsciousness seemed like a welcome relief. But she fought it, bending at the waist to put her head between her legs. She didn’t give a damn what the other elevator passenger—a man in blue scrubs—thought of her.

“You okay, miss?” he asked.

“Just your run-of-the-mill panic attack,” she said, sounding breathless.

“Sit down,” he ordered, and she hesitated. “It’s okay,” he said, patting the floor.

She did what he said, and he told her to keep her head down. He led her through an exercise of slow, deep breaths. She heard the elevator doors open on another floor. She wanted to tell him she had no time for this, but she knew if she rose too soon she would pass out.

“Ignore that,” the man said. “You’re doing great. In two-three-four, hold two-three-four, out two-three-four.”

He kept at it, even as the elevator reached the top floor and began its descent. Eventually, she realized that the dizziness was gone and she was feeling calmer. But he was insistent that they keep going for several more minutes. At last he stopped and took her pulse.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“Much,” she said, starting to rise.

“Slowly,” he warned.

She took his advice and uncurled inch by inch. When at last she straightened, Norah tested her hands by making fists. The tingling was gone. She was okay.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. “I’ve always had panic attacks in hospitals. This is the first time I’ve ever recovered from one without fleeing the building.”

“No problem,” he said. “If you practice that breathing it’ll become second nature. You’re going to eight, right?”

He pushed the button for her floor and his. “You must be visiting someone very special to you,” he said.

“I am,” she said as the doors opened on her floor. “My father.”

She got off the elevator and made a right turn, where a set of double doors separated her from the hallway. All she had to do was push through and find Ted’s room number. Norah paused for a moment for a long, slow breath, and then advanced.

It was a wide hallway. She could see a nurses’ station up ahead on the left. The wall on her right was lined with patients’ rooms. She walked past them, looking at the numbers. “Eight eighteen, eight eighteen,” she repeated to herself as she continued down the path, looking at the descending numbers.

At last she reached the end of the hall and made a left turn. It was a stark, empty corridor except for two lone figures holding on to each other, crying.

Pete and Aviva.

She knew what this tableau meant, but in an instant it became too much to comprehend and something inside of her shut down. Light bounced off surfaces in a way her brain couldn’t process. She couldn’t think or move.

“Norah!” Aviva called, still holding tight to her husband.

The couple pulled apart, and Norah could see that Aviva’s face was wet and swollen from crying. Pete’s eyes were so red the word bloodshot formed a new association in her brain. They approached her and she wanted to flee. She couldn’t hear what they had to say.

“Norah,” Pete said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

“No,” she said.

“I’m so sorry,” Aviva said, trying to hug her. “It just happened. He’s gone.”

She pushed Aviva away. It can’t be, she thought. It can’t.

“Let’s go sit down,” Pete said gently, trying to guide her toward a waiting room, but Norah broke free from his grip and ran down the hall. They called after her, but she didn’t want to talk to them . . . or anyone. She fled through the double doors, and took the elevator to the lobby. Norah didn’t know where she was going or what she was doing—only that she needed to be as far from the hospital as she could get. She went through the exit door and into the street, running. Soon enough, her lungs couldn’t keep up, and so she walked. And walked and walked. Norah wasn’t even conscious of where she was heading. The urgency was to keep moving, no matter what.

He was dead. Her father.

Why hadn’t she told him? Why had she kept that stupid secret for so long? Now it was too late. She couldn’t apologize. She couldn’t do anything.

Norah heard her phone ringing inside her purse but she ignored it. She went on, step after step after step. The momentum kept her from crying.

At least she thought it did. Norah wasn’t conscious of weeping, but her cheeks stung as the cool night breeze blew past her wet face. Then, at a crosswalk, she found that she couldn’t catch her breath and had to bend at the waist to get enough air in her lungs. When she looked up, Norah realized she had been heading south and was just a few blocks east of the Algonquin Hotel.

A garbage truck passed, and Norah stood there as the stench of rot hovered, the noxious cloud working its way deep into her sinuses. She was glued to the spot, the awful smell offering a respite from her throbbing chaos.

When it lifted, she was compelled to keep moving. There was no place she wanted to be, but the Algonquin’s West 44th Street address played like a song and she wandered toward it as if the music were driving her.

When she reached the hotel, Norah stood outside the glass entryway, not sure she wanted to go in. When someone held the door for her, it felt like an invitation she was meant to accept. Still numb, she crossed the threshold, passed the doorman, and headed straight to the Blue Bar. It was closed for the night, but no one tried to stop her.

She sat on a stool in the darkness. There was comfort in the solitary stillness of this place. Norah placed her hands on the smooth bar, grounding herself. It was real. The news she had heard from Pete and Aviva was not a bad dream. Norah covered her face with her hands and wished she could disappear into the blackness. It’s over, she said to herself. Over. She would never get to speak to Ted as her father.

Norah felt a presence next to her but didn’t look up.

“Hello, dear.”

She removed her hands from her face and glanced to her right. There was Dorothy Parker, looking as inscrutable as ever.

Norah knew it was up to her to deliver the news. She inhaled slowly, taking the air deep into her lungs so that she would be able to say it, but a coughing fit overtook her. Dorothy Parker said nothing. At last, Norah took a jagged breath and stared down at the bar.

“I should have listened to you,” she said. “I should have told him.”

She looked up at Dorothy Parker, who had no reaction.

“He’s dead,” Norah continued. “Ted. My father. He’s gone.”

Mrs. Parker looked pensive, as if she were weighing her words. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she finally said.

“And I’m sorry I got so mad at you. You were right to let him know.” She looked into Dorothy Parker’s face and saw that her expression had softened. Norah felt the pity right to her bones and it broke her. She laid her head on her arms and cried like a child. She had missed so much.

“I didn’t get to have one conversation with him as my father,” she said without looking up. “He always thought I was just some ambitious stranger. That’s the worst part. I would give anything to have one more talk with him.”

“Oh, my dear girl,” Mrs. Parker said.

Norah raised her head to read her friend’s expression, but she was gone.

“Where are you?” Norah asked, and saw a swarm of dust particles gathering near the guest book. She stared, wondering why the legendary writer chose this moment to turn to dust. But as the particles took shape, she realized it wasn’t Dorothy Parker.

Norah slid off the stool.

“It can’t be,” she said as she watched a male figure appear out of nothing. He stood a step out of the shadows and she saw that she was right. It was Ted Shriver.