The Day My Daughter Told the Doctor to Let Me Go While I Lay There Unable to Speak

was a worn envelope. The paper had gone soft at the folds from being handled and then put away and handled again. On the front, in Thomas’s handwriting, seven words in blue ink.

If anything happens, call this number.

Thomas had pressed the envelope into my hand two weeks before he died. I had put it where he told me to put it and I had not thought much continue reading …