Let’s just get the boring administrative stuff out of the way so you can rest, Grandma,” Julian continued, pulling a chair violently close to mine. The smell of his cologne—musk and expensive desperation—wafted over me. “We just need to update the trust management. Standard procedure.”

I didn’t blink. I stared past him at the oil painting of Arthur on the far wall. I let my mouth hang slightly open, adopting the vacancy they expected. My right index finger tapped against the armrest of my wheelchair. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

Morse code. W-A-I-T.

Julian mistook it for a spasm of senility. He glanced at his mother, my daughter Caroline, who was busy texting under the table. She gave him a subtle nod. Get on with it.