He took one step, then another, until he was inches from me.

“You think you’ve won,” he whispered.

“But you have nothing without us.”

“I have my own skin,” I said.

Before he could reply, the heavy wrought-iron gate at the side of the patio clicked.

Everyone turned to look.

A man in a dark suit was standing there, holding a leather folder.

He looked around at the silent crowd, his eyes landing on my father.

“Richard Vance?” the man asked.

Father didn’t move.

The man stepped onto the patio, holding out a white envelope.

“You’ve been served,” he said.

The white paper of the envelope contrasted sharply with the dark wool of the process server’s suit.

Father did not reach out to take it.

The man stepped forward anyway, pressing the envelope against Father’s chest until Father’s hand instinctively closed around it.

“Have a good evening,” the man said.

He turned on his heel, walked back through the wrought-iron gate, and closed it behind him with a dull clank.

The silence on the patio returned, thicker than before.