Charles said. “I imagine you can tell.” Avery could. His first thought upon seeing Charles was: Dad’s done for. Avery had not seen his father in exactly one year, since Avery’s thirty-ninth birthday—also the day of his mother’s funeral. Then, Charles’s white hair was lush and thick, his chest strong, his posture confident despite his mourning. Now, he sat in a wheelchair. He was a shrunken, wrinkled leaf. His skin hung loosely. His eyes were alive, though. Bright, startlingly, secretive green. As always. Avery supposed he ought to bend down and hug his father, but neither of them wanted a hug. “Cancer?” Avery guessed. “Yes.” Avery was glad his mother died unsuspecting. The best way to go. A car hit her while she was on a walk. Doctors said she did not suffer. “I have perhaps a month left,” Charles said. Avery nodded. He was vaguely curious what kind of cancer Charles had.
