Thomas smiled toward his older daughter.

“She always did the hard work.”

After dinner, he showed me a collection of terrible cartoons Chloe had drawn on restaurant napkins.

We laughed until my face hurt.

When I left, Thomas handed me a framed photograph of Chloe at fifteen, standing by the ocean with her shoes in her hands.

“She liked this one,” he said.

“You should have a picture of her when she wasn’t a patient.”

I drove home with it on the passenger seat, feeling that I had been given something no amount of money could purchase.