"It's fine," I say, then reconsider as I step back to the sink. "Well, it's not really fine, but I get it. I'm not taking it personally, Owen." There is no easy way to do something like this, to get through the plain fact of the pink water swirling down the drain in front of me. I think we're all going to be feeling this for awhile.

"You want me to run you a bath or shower or something?" I ask, less because I'm inclined toward mothering and more because it's something for him to do: One foot in front of the other in front of the other, until he realizes he can walk again. Then again, he might just want to cry or scream or sleep, and all of that just as valid.