Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
her voice breaks in the way that reporters love. And they flicked back to the studio where the regular anchor is sitting at the desk with his most serious expression, shaking his head and now over to Dan for the weather. Alfa matters just down the road. He gets up to grab a beer from the fridge, the fruit and veggie board at the beginning of the week, a wilting in the crisper. There is a dark shape in the doorway at the edge of his vision, gone before he can turn toward it. Maddie, he calls now, the soft click of her shutting the door to her room. It's no good. She didn't used to hide in her room all the time. Even if she is sick, she must need something he knocks at the door. Can I get you a lemonade? I'm fine, dad, Go away! He knocks again. The door opens a crack, her face swollen and red with fury. The rest of her, though there's not as much of it. What I'll take you to the doctor, love. Look at you. You've lost white. No, dad. He surprised how she reacts, man, he loved the doctor is a girl. When in Got Sick, she went along to every appointment, stroking the glossy magazine covers in the waiting rooms, keeping copies of the scripts and receipts in a neat folder. Sometimes she went in his place, missing school to accompany her mom. AM seemed to sense how ALF hated the hospital. He felt like the walls were closing in on him, bright white above hard clicky floors like the words the doctors used with sharp little Bob's place to puncture his veneer as a husband, as a father to peel it back, exposing the failure he really wass beneath. I'm feeling better. At least let me in. She looks behind her, then steps aside, gripping her phone in her hand. There are piles of clothes everywhere. Small mountains of fabric palled against the blue walls. They're supposed to have been airbrushed boy band about the corkboard of photos, mostly of her and him crumpled tissues like small, squashed flowers. The room smells sour like unwashed flesh. At least open a window. Come on, love. She does. She has lost weight. He can't help but be relieved to see it, but she looks pale. He sits at the edge of her bed. What can I do? Money. What do you mean? I'm your dad. What can I fix for you? I'm fine, she says. But she clearly isn't because her chin quivers teas have already started streaming down her face and she walks at them with a dirty fist. I'm fine. And then she tells him