My mother made a sharp, whistling sound through her nose.

“You selfish, ungrateful girl,” she said.

Her hand came down on the table, rattling the salt shaker.

“Your sister is dying, and you are worrying about a piece of paper.”

Behind her, Megan let out a soft, wet sob, burying her face deeper into her cardigan.

I didn’t look at Megan.

My fingers tapped the trackpad of my laptop, waking the screen from its sleep mode.

The bright white light of a spreadsheet illuminated the dust floating in the stagnant air of the room.

Outside, the Cleveland rain sleeted against the windowpane, a cold, gray sheet of water.

“This isn’t about the deed anymore,” I said.

“Then sign it and let us leave,” my mother snapped, reaching for the paper.

“Look at the screen, Mom.”

I turned the laptop forty-five degrees so it faced her and my father.

My father sat very still, his calloused hands resting on his knees.

He looked tired, the deep lines around his mouth shadowed by the overhead bulb.

“What is that?” he asked, his voice low and raspy.