Then she swings a large U-turn to park in front of a vintage bungalow framed by two reddening oaks and a row of bushes at the property edge. An arched brick entrance leads to a shady front porch. My father will be sitting behind the white-framed double window at the dining room table, waiting for us. And sure enough, before my mother kills the engine, the door opens and there he is—barefoot in slacks and a striped polo, thinning once-dark hair glinting in the sun. He looks cracked and haggard, and I know my mother’s telling the truth about him not sleeping. But his smile is so big in his narrow face that I almost forgive him for not visiting me in the hospital. He skips down the steps and envelops me in a hug as soon as I step out of the car. He smells like coffee and toast. His skin is papery and sallower than I remember, and I wonder if he’s still having chest pains and if I’ll ever get him to see a doctor.

My mother must have warned him, because he barely flinches when he takes in my face. Only the corner of his mouth tightens. I don’t blame him. I imagine I look something like a maskless phantom of the opera. A one-sided hairless cat. That the scars on my face and running down my arm are reminders there are things outside his control—something as ubiquitous as a candle or an extension cord—must be killing him.

“We’re so happy you’re staying with us,” my father says, like I’m there on vacation. Just looking to enjoy the beautiful fall in Athens when the students roll in from the Atlanta suburbs and turn our quaint summer town into a giant tailgating party.

I make a noncommittal noise in the back of my throat and wave his hands away when he grabs my duffel.

“I’m not an invalid,” I tell him.

But I am tired.

I’m conscious of my body, its muscles and thin tissue, in ways I’ve never been before. It’s all unfamiliar: the tightness in my lungs, the weakness of my legs, the thickness of my skin, grown hard and leathery.

“Nonsense,” he says, but his eyes have left my face and are searching the beams of the neighbor’s house. “You’re our guest.” And then he begins to sing under his breath—be my guest, be my guest, put our servers to the test—getting the words wrong like he always does on purpose. And I’m smiling in spite of myself as I follow him and my bag up the stone steps and into the light-filled entry hall with its wooden staircase and French doors that open on either side—the living room with its built-in bookshelves on the left and formal dining room with its long farmhouse table on the right—bathing us in a warm glow.