Chapter 3

Marcus sat at my kitchen table, spreading three stapled pages across the wood.

He set a brown paper bag from a local bakery on the table, pulling out a plastic tub of cinnamon donut holes.

"I brought your favorite," Marcus said, pushing the tub toward Iris with a small, confident smile.

Iris looked down at the cinnamon sugar clinging to the inside of the plastic lid, then pushed the tub slowly back across the table. "I like the lemon ones now, Dad. I haven't eaten cinnamon since fourth grade."

Marcus's hand lingered over the container for a second before he pulled it back. "I can bring lemon next time."

Iris twisted the cap off her water bottle, taking a slow sip without looking up. "You don't have to bring anything."

Marcus cleared his throat, tapping his pen against his interview sheets. "Nora's crew is going to ask about the early years," he explained, his tone businesslike. "All Iris has to say is that I was always present when she was sick. Just keep it simple. 'Dad stayed beside my bed all night.'"

Iris sat across from him, her hands folded in her lap. "Which hospital, Dad?"

Marcus stopped tapping his pen. "What do you mean?"

"The night I had the 104 fever," Iris said, looking straight at him. "Which hospital did you take me to?"

A short pause filled the room.

Marcus smiled smoothly. "County General, of course. Near the old park."

"Mercy Children's," I said from the counter.

I didn't pull out a paper or look at a file. "On Fourth Street."

Marcus set his pen down. "Iris, it was fifteen years ago—"

"Did Mom ask you to come back?" Iris asked, her eyes moving between the two of us.

Marcus looked at me. "She knew I was working."

"I called twice," I said quietly.

"And I called the hospital," Marcus countered.

"After we were discharged," I said.

Marcus's mouth tightened. "I still called."

"What did the nurse give Mom when we left?" Iris asked him.

Marcus stared at her. "Nurses hand out hundreds of stickers—"

"A yellow fleece blanket," I added softly. "With a blue border. Iris wouldn't sleep without it for three years."

Marcus took a slow breath. He didn't raise his voice.

He looked at Iris, his tone shifting into something quiet and measured.

"Your mother remembers the room, Iris," Marcus said. "I remember the call from Denver. I remember sitting in an airport terminal terrified I was going to lose my daughter."

"Then why does the script put you beside her bed?" I asked, leaning against the counter.

"Because the fear was real, Elena," Marcus replied, looking straight at me. "One wrong detail shouldn't erase fifteen years of effort. I was working because that job kept us insured and paid the rent."

He turned back to Iris. "What about the night your solo went wrong when you were eleven? You froze on stage, ran out the side door, and hid near the theater loading dock. Who came out and found you?"

Iris's eyes flickered. She looked down at her hands. "You did."

"That's right," Marcus said gently. "I didn't yell. I took you to that 24-hour diner on Main, bought you fries, and sat with you in the corner booth until midnight, waiting for you to talk. You didn't even eat the burger. You just lined up your fries from shortest to longest on the paper placemat."

Iris looked up, her fingers tightening slightly against her knee. "You remembered that?"

"I remembered," Marcus said softly.

The diner was real.

"You remember every time I failed, Elena," Marcus said to me. "She remembers at least one time I didn't."

Marcus stood up and zipped his jacket.

He reached out to pat Iris's shoulder. "Get some sleep."

Iris pulled her shoulders back, stepping out of reach. "Don't call me sweetie, Dad."

Marcus stopped, his hand hovering in mid-air. "Why not?"

"You haven't called me that in two years," Iris said quietly, looking down at her socks. "You only do it when someone's listening."

Marcus paused.

A shadow crossed his face before he nodded once. "Then let me learn."

He walked to the front door.

As I held the handle open, Marcus stopped on the porch, his eyes meeting mine.

"You always did save everything, Elena," Marcus whispered. "If you want me to answer for fifteen years, be ready to answer for yours."