It was grainy, shot from a low angle — a phone, propped somewhere, its owner not realizing it was recording, or not caring.

It showed a hospital room.

It showed my grandfather in the bed, deeply sedated, his mouth slack, entirely absent.

And it showed my father, standing over him, taking my grandfather’s limp hand in his own and pressing his fingers around a pen, guiding that helpless hand across the signature line of a document.

Steadman was quiet for a long moment.

When he spoke, his careful lawyer’s hedging was gone.