The first is my father’s birth certificate: Des Moines, Iowa, Richard Jeffrey Bins, 8/1/1950, born to Jack and Margaret Bins.

The second is what Mike was referring to in his email. My grandparents were killed by a drunk driver on their way home from dinner on Valentine’s Day. My father was twenty-one at the time, a junior at the University of Iowa. The PDF is a death certificate for my grandmother, dated 2/14/71. The third PDF is identical to the second, only it has my grandfather’s name.

The fourth is my birth certificate.

It matches the birth certificate I have, or had — I’m not sure if it survived the flash drive massacre — in a file at my condo: Manassas, Virginia, Henry Grayson Bins, 3/20/1978, born to Richard and Sally Bins.

My dad’s unmistakable signature — nearly illegible, each letter nearly half-an-inch-high and the “d” from Richard and the “b” from Bins overlapping — at the bottom.

My mother’s signature is a quarter the size of my father’s. Neat, each letter skillful, each spacing perfect.

I let out an audible sigh of relief.

My dad is my dad.

Thank God.

::::

3:22 a.m.

I check my stocks. I lost nearly $60,000 over the last two days. I cut my losses and move what remains from a handful of fledgling investments into safe, low-yield bonds.

I haven’t exercised in nearly a week, and I pull my Asics from beneath the bed and slip on the first one. Tying the double knot, it dawns on me I forgot to check something. I was so preoccupied — nay, relieved — to find out that my dad was exactly the man I thought he was, I forgot about the message I sent last night.

To Sidney Ewen.

I log into Facebook.

One new message.

It’s from him.

My heart rate doubles.

Last night I’d messaged him: Mr. Ewen, I’m guessing you know who I am. I have some questions for you. Please message me back when you get this.

I click open his message.

Mr. Bins,

I am quite familiar with who you are and the condition you suffer from. Frankly, I’m surprised it has taken you this long to contact me. I will answer all your questions to the best of my ability, but I must warn you, you may not like the answers.

Sidney

I take a deep breath and begin typing questions. In the end, I delete them all, then type four words: Can we meet tomorrow?

I hit send, then pull on my second sneaker.

Murdock, who has a sixth sense for when I’m heading for a run, gallops into the room.

He cocks his head at me and pants.

“Yes, you can come.”

His tail helicopters in a big circle, and he jumps up and licks my face.

I give a cursory glance for Lassie, but I don’t find him.