Later that night I opened an old message from my father, from six weeks earlier, and read it again with new eyes.

He had written that their car needed work and that they were stuck at home until they figured out the cost, and underneath he had asked whether I could help with groceries that week.

I had sent the five hundred and fifty dollars that Friday, as I did every Friday, and I had thought nothing of the asking.

Read the new one, Marcus said, looking over my shoulder, and I opened the birthday message, the one my father had sent from Danny’s house.

We’re at Danny’s, it said.