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IT IS TWO DAYS later.

By now I feel as if I could pass a spot quiz about the spontaneous regression of tumors, and how the body can sometimes trigger its own response against specific antigens on the surface of cells, in combination with the drugs and the treatment a patient has received.

The patient being me, in this case, and the chemo treatments I had already received, and most recently the antibody drug conjugants I received at the Meier Clinic.

“In the end,” Dr. Sam Wylie told me, “what just happened to you is difficult to quantify.”

Then she hugged me and said, “The best way for me to explain it in a way you can understand is that sometimes all the shit you’ve been taking actually works.”

On this particular morning Dr. Ben Kalinsky is in surgery. But we are planning dinner tonight, our first night out since I got my news at the hospital, at Page in Sag Harbor. We may even show up early for a drink at Jimmy’s.

Eric Jacobson was arraigned this morning at the same courthouse in Mineola where his father had been on trial for murders that Eric and Edmund McKenzie had committed, out of hate and madness.

Thomas McGoey, bless his heart, was at Eric’s side for the arraignment.

When Thomas started to speak to reporters outside the courthouse, I dove across my couch for the remote and shut off the TV in my living room.

“Best defense his daddy can buy,” I say to Jimmy Cunniff.

“Well,” Jimmy says, “ almost the best.”

Then we put Rip into Jimmy’s car and drive to Indian Wells Beach, where I plan to think about living and not dying, for a change.

It is an almost perfect autumn morning, the sun high in the sky. Jimmy keeps throwing a tennis ball for Rip to chase down.

“I keep forgetting to ask,” Jimmy says. “How’s Brigid doing, really?”

We’ve decided to walk all the way to Atlantic Avenue Beach. It’s that kind of morning, and there’s nowhere else we need to be except here, and nowhere else we want to be.

“They tell me at the Meier Clinic that they are, quote, guardedly optimistic, end quote,” I say. “That would be wildly optimistic anywhere else.”

I take a turn throwing the ball, mostly to show Jimmy I still have the arm, after everything.

“But,” I add, “they plan to keep her there for a couple more weeks, at least.”

“Which keeps her from rushing back into Rob Jacobson’s arms for a couple more weeks,” Jimmy says.

“She will do that when she does come back over my extremely healthy body,” I say.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Jimmy asks.

“He keeps trying,” I say. “And I keep not taking his calls.”

“Has he tried to stop by?”

I smile at Jimmy. “He’s not an idiot. He knows I’m still armed.”

We stop now and stare out at the water, calm on this morning and beautiful and endless. Rip plops down, panting, in the sand.

“You got any immediate plans,” Jimmy asks, “other than dinner with your boyfriend tonight?”

“A lot of nothing,” I say, “followed by more nothing.”

“I hate to point this out,” he says, “but doing nothing has never been one of your strong suits.”

He is wearing his Yankees cap, just without the camera sewn into the front today.

“Even an old dog can learn new tricks,” I say. “Isn’t that right, Rip?”

We start walking back to the car.

“There is one thing I’m thinking about doing,” I tell Jimmy. “If you can keep a secret.”

“Always.”

“I might just up and ask Ben to marry me,” I say.

“For real?”

We’ve stopped again before heading up to the parking lot.

“I’m not there yet,” I tell him. “But feel like I might be getting there.”

Jimmy puts his arms around me and pulls me tight to him.

“Can I be maid of honor?” he asks.

When we get back to the house, Jimmy comes in for one fast cup of coffee before he heads back home.

I take my own coffee mug with me out to the back patio and find myself standing in front of my hummingbird feeder, already thinking about buying a new one for next spring, maybe one with a camera attached to it.

I am still putting sugar water in it, even though the birds are gone until then.

I start to turn and head back into the house when I see a flash of color out of the corner of my eye.

The lone hummingbird is back.

There is no way she should still be here, not at this time of year. She shouldn’t have still been here the last time I saw her.

And yet here she is.

But she’s not here to drink.

She just hovers there, looking straight at me.

Almost as if making sure I’m the one who’s still here.

Then she flies off.