She kept her heavy winter coat on, her wet umbrella dripping onto the linoleum.

“The luxury high-rise downtown,” she added.

“The one with the heated pool and the concierge.”

My father looked at the number next to the name.

It was three thousand dollars.

Sent every month on the first.

“You told me that was for the experimental physical therapy,” he said, turning his head slowly toward Megan.

Megan didn’t look at him.

She was staring at the corner of the rug, her fingernails digging into her palms.

“The clinic in Chicago,” my father whispered.

“You said they didn’t take our insurance.”

“Dad, please,” Megan said.

Her voice lacked its usual soft, fragile edge.

It sounded sharp now.

“There were other expenses,” she said.

“Living in the city is expensive.”

“You didn’t live in the city,” I said.

I stepped closer to the table, my work boots squeaking on the wet floor.

“You lived in a penthouse while I was working double shifts at the substation.”

My hands still had the gray dust of drywall under the fingernails.