When I moved from London, England, to the small coastal town of Stavanger, Norway, I was running. Fleeing. Of course I didn’t admit this to my family and friends—I didn’t have to. Their pitying expressions told me that I wasn’t fooling anybody with my big plans to move on. They knew I was running away from the memories of you in that hospital bed, dead at twenty-two. A congenital defect, the doctors said. Nothing could have been done.