And ask her why the only working emergency contact on his chart was the ex-daughter-in-law you threw out into the rain like a bag of trash.”

On the cot, my father made a sound, and I turned.

He had gotten his working hand around my wrist.

He was gripping it with surprising strength, and he was shaking his head at me, frantically, back and forth, tears running down into his white beard — trying, I understood, to tell me that Lucy was not the one to blame.

That I had it wrong.