The day the world ended is burned into my retina with high-definition clarity. It was our annual Memorial Day barbecue. The air smelled of charcoal, cut grass, and expensive perfume. Everyone was there—aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors.

Dad was vibrating with nervous energy, pacing the perimeter of the yard, taking “client calls” on a federal holiday. Rachel was late, which was unheard of. When she finally arrived, flustered and breathless, blaming Memorial Day traffic, she set her phone on the patio table to help carry out the sides.