His eyes were glued to the screen, tracking the dates of the withdrawals.

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his reading glasses, his fingers fumbling with the wire frames.

He hooked them over his ears and leaned closer to the monitor.

The blue light reflected off the thick lenses, showing the rows of numbers reflecting in his eyes.

“These are from my retirement fund,” he whispered.

“Yes,” I said.

“The penalty withdrawals,” he said, his voice dropping to a hollow murmur.

“There’s more,” I said, hovering my cursor over the final folder.

“Stop it!” Megan shrieked, standing up from her chair.

She didn’t limp.

She didn’t lean on the table for support.

She stood straight, her face twisted in a snarl, her crutch clattering to the linoleum floor.

My father didn’t even look at the fallen crutch.

He just stared at the screen as I clicked the next file.

A document appeared with a bank logo and a stamp that read *Account Closed*.

“This is the account you told me was for her spinal injections, Dad,” I said.