Later that afternoon, the door to my dad’s hospital room is open. He’s looking out the window with a stony expression on his face while my mom and I wait to go in. It’s the calmest I’ve seen him since we got here, but he looks so sick with all the machines keeping track of him. Aren’t you scared? I wonder.

“Oh, he’s awake—let’s go in, Cham,” my mom says, putting away her phone. “I know Dad would like to see you.”

“Would he?” I mumble. “He said—”

My mom has duffel bags under her eyes. “He was confused, Cham. I know it hurt, but he didn’t mean it. You are not a disappointing daughter, so let it go, okay?”

She takes her glasses off, cleans them even though they’re not dirty, then leads me through the door. “Are those fingernail marks on your wrist?” she asks suddenly, taking my arm and pulling my sleeve up.

“No.” I yank my hand back.

She pauses for a minute, the decision playing out on her face, whether or not she’ll believe me. “I know it’s a stressful time, but if you’re not managing your anger okay, I need to know about it.” She lowers her voice so that none of the nurses or patients around us can hear. “Are you scratching yourself? Because if you’re starting to hurt yourself—”

“Mom, I was never hurting myself. Digging my nails into my skin like three times in eighth grade isn’t hurting myself.”

She glares at me. “Don’t downplay self-harm, Cham. Three fingernail marks is still three fingernail marks. If you feel like you might be going down a slippery slope—”

“Mom,” I say too loudly, “I know how to ask for help if I need it.”

“Good.” She sighs, then knocks lightly on my dad’s door, even though it’s open. “Scott?” she says as we walk in. “How are you, honey?”

My dad turns to look at us, his face unsmiling. “I feel lousy. Look at me.”

“Are you in pain anywhere?” my mom asks, touching his forehead gently.

“Everything hurts.”

“Can I get you something, Daddy?” I ask, my voice kind of squeaking. His hospital gown is fresh and it fits him properly now, but the more he looks like he belongs here, the more disconcerting it is.

“I just want to go home,” he says.

“I know, honey.” My mom kisses him on the cheek. “Soon.”

There’s a knock on the door and we all look up. “Hey, Mr. Myles,” a doctor with short hair and a big smile says. “I’m Dr. Bhatti, part of the neurology team here at Beth Israel.”

My dad extends an unusually steady hand to shake hers.

“It’s not really shaking, Dad!” I accidentally shout. I look up at him, expecting his face to register a miracle. It doesn’t.

“See?” the doctor says, smiling. “Didn’t I tell you the medicine would help?”

“It makes me nauseous,” he says flatly.