Marcus Vance knocked once on the doorframe at four thirty sharp and stepped inside, carrying his brown leather briefcase under his arm.

“How is she doing?” Vance asked, looking toward the bed, where Grace was drawing in her sketchbook.

“She’s resting,” I said, stepping into the doorway beside him.

Vance opened his briefcase, took out a stapled document with a red municipal seal stamped across the front cover, and handed it to me.

“This is a certified copy of your joint health insurance policy rider from Daniel’s employer,” Vance said.

“I pulled it straight from the state insurance commission database an hour ago.”