I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I sit on the couch, staring at the ceiling. I think of my memories of my dad, the way he would throw me up in the air in the backyard, the way he would every once in a while let me eat banana splits for breakfast. Those memories have always been tinged by how he died. They have always had a bittersweetness to them because I believed it was his mistakes that took him from me too soon. And now I don’t know what to make of him. I don’t know how to think of him. A defining trait is gone and is replaced by so much more—for better or for worse. At some point, after I start replaying the same images over and over in my mind—memories of my father alive, imagined images of his final moments and his death—I realize I can’t sit still anymore. So I stand up, I walk into the hallway, and I start looking for Evelyn. I find her in the kitchen with Grace. “So this is why I’m here?” I say, holding the letter in the air. “Grace, would you mind giving us a moment?” Grace gets up from her stool. “Sure.” She disappears down the hall. When she’s gone, Evelyn looks at me. “It’s not the only reason I wanted to meet you. I tracked you down to give you the letter, obviously. And I had been looking for a way to introduce myself to you that wasn’t quite so out of the blue, quite so shocking.” “Vivant helped you with that, clearly.” “It gave me a pretense, yes. I felt more comfortable having a major magazine send you than calling you up on the phone and trying to explain how I knew who you were.” “So you figured you’d just lure me here with the promise of a bestseller.” “No,” she says, shaking her head. “Once I started researching you, I read most of your work. Specifically, I read your right-to-die piece.” I put the letter on the table. I consider taking a seat. “So?” “I thought it was beautifully written. It was informed, intelligent, balanced, and compassionate. It had heart. I admired the way you deftly