Why, after so many decades, did it have to be this morning, in the dead hell of Center City winter, that Dad got his brain gummed? The air outside the clinic is ice, and each breath of early February feels like snorting glass. I could go back inside and wait with the other families—all coughing children and beleaguered mothers tapping through consent forms on tablet screens—or god forbid I could go sit in the tech room with Dad while he gets the treatment, but I’d rather suffer out here. My sister would tell me to stop complaining and “just be