I printed out our exchange so that something of Antonio would occupy the same space as me. I put the printouts in a folder and slid the folder down the wall by my bed. Under my bed is one place in the house where no one ever goes. There are things under there with half an inch of dust on them. A fairy wand that used to light up, a Lalaloopsy doll, a collage I made in third grade, a plastic diary you unlock by punching in a code, a book called Sexwise, and probably lots of other things I can’t see. I know because when something drops between the bed and the wall, I have to shine a flashlight down and fish it out with barbecue tongs. The edges of the lost things are gray and furry like the objects that could be seen through the portholes when they found the Titanic. I was about to do a huge clearing out of my bedroom when I got sick. Now I’d rather just leave things where they are, along with the tongs and the folder of emails, where I’ll put the new ones when they come in. If they keep coming in.

Luckily my counts weren’t high enough for the next treatment, so I had a few extra weeks of feeling good. Next time I went to visit Jack, I met his father. Coincidence! Two fathers in the same week. Maybe finding a father is such a big event it’s like a magnet that drags other fathers into it.

Jack and I were on his laptop browsing when I heard the front door open and footsteps on the stairs. It made me jump, although we were doing nothing worth being jumpy about. Mr. Bell is stockier than Jack, but with the same broad face and narrowed eyes that give you the feeling he’s thinking deep thoughts, or at least amusing ones. He shook my hand as if he had bald girls in his kitchen every day of the week and said: “I guess you’ve been having a hard time.”

“Dad!”

“Sorry. Did I say something wrong?” He searched my face for signs of offense. “I’m always embarrassing my son.” He slapped Jack on the back. “It’s in the job description.”

Jack shrugged his hand off. “Be like your hairline, Dad. Withdraw.”

His father winked at me. I hoped he would see through my weak smile and ask me more specific questions about the hard time I was having. But he didn’t, so I hugged myself as if I were cold and picked threads off my sweater.