“Who programmed you to be such a mom, Mina?” I ask. I can … almost trick myself into believing she’s a friend.

“It is most important to be courageous and kind,” Mina replies inexplicably, something wise and mystical to her flat-paneled face.

“I mean, sure.”

I forage for dinner, which is a cold packaged deal, found in multi- colored stacks in the otherwise empty fridge and ordered by Mina from some sadistic cafeteria. I sit eating on the same floor of the sickroom, back against the wall, eyeballs zooming from the empty space on Dad’s bed to the side table where I’ve set down White Fox.

“Hi, parents,” I say to the empty room. The Bee Gees croon, as I pick through a lump of what might be salt cod and imagine having dinner here with him, blurring time so it’s one year ago.

“My compliments to your chef, Dad,” I say aloud. “These salt cod strips are both soggy and jerky-tough.”

He would smile, lips pale, and shake his head. Maybe I would try a sip of Dad’s dinner, some green goo fashioned by Mina, too, only to realize that it’s definitely a controlled substance and entirely magical. Mina’s panel would darken with concern as waves of pleasant heat roll through to my toes, and I would start telling Dad horrible, outdated, your-mama jokes. Dad and I would laugh with each other like we haven’t in a while, at—really—nothing at all, and he would become, for a moment, the softer, more tender version of the Dad I knew. I would take his hand, smaller than ever, but lily-white and perfect, the nails shaped recently by someone, someone meticulous. Thaïs, he would say. I’m so glad you’re here.

And that’s when “Rocket Man” by Elton John starts on my playlist, like Dad’s summoned it.

And I remember.

Remember when I was six years old and Dad was working late in his office downstairs. I had a habit of sneaking down in my pajamas when everyone else had gone to sleep and peering around the corner. Sometimes, very late at night, Dad would play music on his record player. He loved David Bowie and Elton John, and night after night, I would watch him, pencil in his mouth, hunched over his desk with a single light on, working after everyone else had gone to sleep. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of me down the hall and beckon, and I would sit on his lap, listening to the music while he worked, until he told me it was time to go to back to bed.

But one night.

One night, I peeked around the corner, and “Rocket Man” was playing: a song I loved, because sometimes he tapped his pencil and hummed and smiled when it played. A song I’d memorized, to keep its magic close.