The carved busts of founders and former surgeons guarded the lobby of the Brooklyn Methodist Hospital. As Theo bypassed the reception area and scanned the directory board, shoes squeaking on the gray linoleum, he hoped the bland walls and scratched skirting were a sign the hospital invested in treatments rather than décor. His father’s ward was on the seventh floor, and he would usually take the six flights of stairs—he didn’t want to give the diabetes gene an excuse to rear its ugly head—but today he was in a hurry.

He shared the elevator with a well-dressed couple, and the man acknowledged him while the woman hid her face in a handkerchief. The doors slid open on a near-deserted floor, disinfectant mingling with the stench of food and bedpans, and he waited a long time at the nurse’s station before one appeared and directed him to his father. He followed impatiently, trying to hide his concern and irritation since he knew that while the war had ended New York’s depression, bringing the docks and businesses back to life, it had also robbed them of their medical staff.

Flimsy curtains divided the ward into quarters, the overhead lights fizzed, and dark-painted lamps clung to the walls like crouching grasshoppers. Theo examined each bed closely before he found his father.

Samuel Bloom was lying motionless in the metal-framed bed closest to the window, two stands either side drip-feeding fluid into his bandaged hands. The sight made Theo’s breath catch in his throat.

As Theo drew closer, he saw that his father’s eyes were closed, not observing the green belt that spread out before him on the other side of the glass. Two bound feet protruded from beneath dull gray sheets, their white gauze protecting his father’s agonizing ulcers. His bulk was a substantial contour beneath the blanket, reminding Theo of one of the causes of his illness. That and the diabetic ketoacidosis—a life-threatening condition, the doctor had explained to him after his father’s last hospitalization. He supposed the fluids were for the insulin and the infection that Samuel had developed, and hopefully something for the pain.

Theo placed his small suitcase at the foot of the bed and moved quietly to stand by his father’s shoulder, gazing down at his pale waxy skin, not the usual ruddy complexion of the diabetic. No matter how well you know a person, there’s always a mystery to discover, he thought, noticing the deep creases at the sides of his father’s mouth and the bony ridges of his eyebrows as if for the first time. It was the same with Alice’s face, which offered surprises every time he saw it: a new expression, eyes lit in a different way, or a singular mannerism—

“What the heck are you doing here, son?”

Theo looked back down to see his father’s blue eyes staring up at him. “How ya feelin’, Pop?”