“That’s a fake,” my mother said immediately, her face flushing red. “Anyone can put a face on a body with computers.”

I did not answer her.

I swiped the phone screen, and a video clip began to play.

The footage was shaky, shot in a crowded, dimly lit bar in downtown Cleveland.

Megan was dancing on a wooden tabletop, her arms raised as she laughed and spun around on high heels.

There was no brace on her knee, no tremor in her hands, and no pain on her face.

“She was forced to go to that birthday party,” my mother stammered, though her voice lacked its previous certainty. “She was trying to have one normal night despite her suffering.”

“This footage wasn’t taken by an stranger,” I said, keeping my eyes on Megan. “It was sent to me by Lauren.”

Megan’s face drained of color, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the armrests of her chair.

“Who is Lauren?” my father asked, his brow furrowing as he looked from the screen to his youngest daughter.

“She was Megan’s roommate last year,” I said. “Before Megan moved back into your house.”