Their lives are small and hard now.

They made them so.

Six months ago a letter reached me from the federal facility in Oregon — long, and searching, and in the end familiar, because it spent its pages blaming Selina, and the pressure of the acquisition, and even my father’s memory, for everything Flynn had chosen with his own hands.

Near the close, he asked whether I would come and see him, before his first parole hearing.

I read it once.