A girl in the hospital hallway looked up at him and said, "You have my eyes." He'd never seen her before in his life.

Nathan came to sign paperwork for a wing named after his mother.

The girl was maybe five, on a plastic chair, juice box in both hands, shoes not touching the floor. She studied him with no manners at all.

"You have my eyes," she said. "Mom says I got them from my dad, but my dad's not here."

Behind him, footsteps stopped in the corridor.

Nathan knew that rhythm. Six years of it.

He didn't turn around. He crouched to her level. "What's your name?"

She told him. It was his grandmother's — the name on the plaque he'd come to sign.

The footsteps started again, closer.