My legs feel watery suddenly, like I can’t trust them to hold my weight. I hear Jon saying my name, but he sounds far away. I slump to the ground. I want to lie facedown on the grass, to touch something real, to feel the earth’s solidity beneath me. I wish I could burrow into it, hide at least for a while until things make sense again. But I can’t because Jon’s sitting next to me and he’s passing me a bottle of water, telling me to drink. I drink. It helps a bit.

“Grace is twenty?” I ask. I used to call her my little sister. She was so small. Jon nods.

“She’s almost my age.” I try to picture Grace older, as a woman smiling in her wheelchair, not a girl, but I can’t focus on the image. I realize I never imagined her growing up, becoming an adult. My voice is small as I ask, “Why? Why would she want to be younger?”

“I’ve thought about it and the only answer that makes sense is that pediatric care tends to be much better than what’s on offer to adults, especially in Plymouth. Maybe it was something that started out as a white lie—a fib on a form—and then Meg found she had to maintain it. Maybe admitting to the lie felt worse than just going along with it. And the name, well, maybe they both just preferred Grace? Maybe she just felt like Zoe never suited her and it didn’t seem relevant to tell anyone? People change their names sometimes, don’t they?”

Yes, yes. This is good. This makes some sense.

“Meg did anything she could to get the best care for Grace,” I say. Mum always said Meg knew more about Grace’s conditions than the experts themselves. She had been known to drive up to London and back in a day just for Grace to have a single test. Grace’s health was the most important thing in both their lives and I have no doubt that Meg would stop at nothing to get Grace the care she needed, even if it meant lying for years about her daughter’s age. I don’t judge her for it.

“I thought maybe Dr. Rossi knew she’d been lying and that’s why she was so defensive yesterday—she didn’t want to be involved,” Jon says. He’s right. She must have thought we had proof that she knew Grace—I can’t imagine ever calling her Zoe—was older, there could be professional implications for her. She must have been relieved when she found out it was just a thank-you card.

“What should we do?” I ask.

But Jon doesn’t answer because he’s staring at his phone, which is vibrating in his hand, his thumb hovering over the answer button like he doesn’t know what to do. He answers. I can just make out a woman’s voice. She sounds stressed, her voice taut, like she’s about to snap.

“Of course I haven’t forgotten we moved the time, Ruth. I’m on my way right now.” He looks at his watch, springs to his feet, and rubs his eyes under his glasses.