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"...a flushed young woman juggling a screaming infant in one arm, a toddler in a baby carriage...and the defiant young Brian..."
"'I'm sorry we're late,' says Mrs. Flynn, "the directions were horrible and the traffic was such a nightmare...'"
"...his gums are pure alabaster white...I move my hand over his abdomen...I have no problem finding the miscreant...a large, softball-sized mass."
"'You can feel something," she says, more statement than question...Mrs. Flynn lets the tears come now, apologizing, embarrassed, fumbling in a pocket for a tissue as the baby over her shoulder begins to wail."
"I whisper that she can take as much time as she needs, but that when she's ready to leave, simply head out, that we will forward the bill, my disagreeable charge for being an undertaker."
"As they go, I allow myself a moment of weakness, hear the whispered second guess inside my head...Was my timing right? Could he have another day at home, another week? Could he have gone for one more turn around the park, had one last supper? We'll never know."
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