“If you file a formal statement, Patricia won’t put up with it,” Harold said.

“You know how she gets when she feels backed into a corner.”

“Is that a threat, Dad?” I asked.

The line went silent while a nurse wheeled a linen cart past me down the hall.

“I’m only telling you how things are,” Harold said at last.

“Don’t do something today you’ll be sorry for the rest of your life.”

I hung up without answering him and shoved the phone back in my bag.

The little bedside lamp in Room 204 threw a warm, pale yellow circle over the white hospital sheet.