They are cleaning up as I reach his bedside. The blue curtain shrouds him from view.

“Oh please,” he cries.

“Just turn on your side, please Michael,” says the nurse.

I coach him from outside the curtain.

My words register.

The curtain is rolled back.

“Hello Daddy.”

He looks at me through droopy lids, his hair standing up like an improvised fan.

“Hello sweetheart.”

“How are you today?”

“Concerned,” he says, emphasizing the last syllable.

“Why is that?”

“I hope no one will be violent to me.”

“Don’t worry, Dad. You’re in good hands.”

I grab an apple from his locker.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

I’m amazed how he continues to recite the entire Lord’s Prayer without a hiccup.

“It’s been a good day today,” He says.

“And you’re a very good daughter.”

“You’re a good father. The best a daughter can get.”

“Oh, you are kind.”

He drifts off to sleep.