Weeks later, I finally met Eleanor at her home. She remembered one detail more clearly than anything else: I had held her hand while she was frightened. She told me she had spent thirty-two years teaching middle-school science and trying to teach children that life was full of moments when something required a response. “Most people keep driving,” she said. “And then there are people who go back.” I told her I had almost been one of the people who kept driving. She smiled and said that was precisely the point—virtue was not never hesitating; sometimes it was recognizing what you had done and turning around. Driving home afterward, I understood what I would someday tell Lily and Cora. Not that good things always happen when you do the right thing, because they do not. I would tell them about the hundred yards after I passed Eleanor. About the moment when I could still have continued. About the choice to go back.