“She had that right, Dad,” Garrett said.

“She believed in looking after what was yours,” I said.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing tonight,” Garrett said, reaching into the inside pocket of his dark blazer.

He took out a three-page document stapled at the top corner and spread it open against the black railing.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a voluntary medical management waiver,” Garrett said, pointing at a blank signature line flagged with a red sticky tab.

“What does it do?” I asked, looking at the legal text typed across the first page.