When I’m being generous, I can feel bad for Mom having to live up to even higher standards than I do. I never knew my grandmother well, as she died very soon after I was born, but she was a senior policy adviser for the United Nations, and she had also played for the New York Philharmonic when she was in her teens. And Grandfather has an MD-PhD and was a world-renowned epidemiologist until he retired. Apparently, he traveled a lot for his job, so he wasn’t part of all the Families-related activities that dominated my mother’s life, and the two of them were never close the way he is with me.

It’s nice to know that Mom hasn’t always had it all figured out. Maybe her rebellious phase was how she ended up marrying a directionless musician like my father.

“Come, read with me,” Grandfather says.

Reading with Grandfather is a daily ritual. My dad used to play music for me every night until I fell asleep, and when he left, I couldn’t sleep for a week. Grandfather started reading to me instead. Every single night, until I started reading to him. I miss my dad a lot, but it’s never hurt too much because Grandfather has always been there in his place. But now I might lose him, too.

If Grandfather sees my eyes filling with tears, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He just passes me his newspaper.

Grandfather subscribes to at least ten different newspapers local and foreign, and he reads every single one. He says it’s important to be aware of what’s happening around the world. That generally means knowing about how bad things are and how helpless I am to change any of it, so I’d much rather ignore it all.

As predicted, the headlines are grim. An increase in deaths of homeless people over the winter months, refugees dying from a pandemic, a famous scientist gone missing and presumed dead.

As I read, Grandfather’s eyelids droop, and soon he’s asleep. At least he looks comfortable. I use my sleeve to wipe my cheeks as tear stains gather on the newsprint.

I hate feeling helpless.

Sal, Grandfather’s housekeeper who is basically part of the family, comes in holding a package. I discard the newspaper and get up to give her a hug.

“Welcome back,” she whispers so as not to wake Grandfather.

“Hi, Sal.” I hug her, breathing in her familiar scent of lavender and jasmine.

“This just arrived for you in the mail.” She presses the parcel into my hands. It’s wrapped in thick brown paper, and in loopy script it says, Application to the Genesis Institute.

As I take it, my heartbeat quickens.

Maybe I don’t have to be helpless anymore.

Michael told me I have healing abilities. The Makers have advanced medicine. Could their knowledge help Grandfather?