I see the number of days a person has left. At five, I pointed at Danny next door and said two. Two days later, a truck killed him. I told my grandmother one hundred eighty. She died on the last day. My parents stopped calling it coincidence; I learned to keep my mouth shut. At twenty-four, I saw three above my father's head in his hospital room. I counted every breath until he was gone. At his funeral, my mother's number appeared: eleven. Then I found the folder in his office. A house at Halden Cove. A woman. A boy with my father's eyes. Years of photographs. The man I buried had lived two lives. But I had looked at my father my whole life. He only ever had one number. If the woman was real, why didn't I see hers? Maybe she was already gone.