The ante-room was narrow, furnished with two long wooden benches that faced each other across a strip of green carpet.

My father sat on the bench nearest the water cooler, his winter coat draped over his knees.

His attorney, a man with a gray leather briefcase, was whispering in his ear, but he stopped when the door clicked shut behind me.

Arthur looked up, his fingers immediately rising to adjust his wire-rimmed glasses.

He looked older under the harsh ceiling lights, the skin beneath his eyes dark and loose.

He did not call me Mara Bell, and he did not use my childhood name either.