It was two years ago, around 11 on a Thursday morning. I was in our bedroom where, more often than not, I tuck in to write. Most of my nine books and over 1,000 columns have been written while propped in bed — mainly because I start while still in my night clothes — but others have been written from a back porch rocker. Tink walked in, his laptop in hand and open. His face was ashen, covered with a look that I had never seen.