My sister.

“This is fake,” I heard myself say, backing away from the paper as if it might bite.

“This is some kind of trick.

Maya sends me videos of him every week.

From the facility.

From the gardens.”

Lucy laughed — a short, dry, terrible sound with no humor anywhere in it.

“Then go and ask your sister,” she said, “why your father was left at two o’clock in the morning in the waiting room of a free public clinic, with a stroke, and not one dollar to his name.