Coolis General had started as a small brick building. With the arrival of the prison and wealth, two enormous wings had been attached, giving it the appearance of a dragonfly. We walked up a long path, past beds of summer flowers, to the entrance, which was in the old part, the body of the insect. Signs directed visitors to the Connie Brest Baladine Surgicenter, to radiology, and to patient information.

“Howdy,” Mr. Contreras said to the bored woman at the information desk. “I need to talk to someone about my granddaughter. She—well, she was a patient here up to last week, and things didn’t turn out too good for her.”

The woman braced herself. I could see what to do if family threatens a malpractice suit running through her mind as she asked Mr. Contreras for his granddaughter’s name.

“Nicola Aguinaldo.” He spelled it for her. “I ain’t saying we blame the hospital or anything, but I sure would like to know how she come in and how she left and all. She—well, she got herself in a little bit of trouble up in Chicago, and she was over here in Coolis, in the jail, when she took sick.”

Once he got past his initial nervousness, he was in full stride. I began to believe that Nicola Aguinaldo really had been his granddaughter, with the family that worried about her, but you know how it is with today’s young people, you can’t ever tell them nothing. The woman at the desk kept trying to interrupt him—she wanted to explain that she couldn’t talk to him about patients, especially not when they were prisoners, but she finally gave up and summoned a superior.

In a few minutes a woman about my own age showed up. If she’d been sprayed with polyurethane she couldn’t have been glossier or more untouchable. She introduced herself as Muriel Paxton, the head of patient affairs, and invited us to follow her to her office. The back of her crimson suit barely moved as she walked, as though she’d figured out how to use her legs without involving her pelvis.

Like all modern hospitals, Coolis General had spared no expense on their administrative offices. Radical mastectomies may be done now as outpatient procedures, but heaven forbid that management skimps on any attention to comfort. Muriel Paxton enthroned herself behind a slab of rosewood that clashed with the red of her suit. Mr. Contreras and I, feet sinking to our ankles in the lavender pile on the floor, sat in faux–wicker side chairs.

“Why don’t we start with your names.” Ms. Paxton held a pen like a dagger over a legal pad.

“This is Nicola Aguinaldo’s grandfather,” I said, “and I’m the family lawyer.”