The watch feels heavy on my wrist as I straighten the pencils for the third time. Dad’s Timex, the one he wore to every job site for twenty years. The leather strap is worn soft, molded to a different man’s wrist, but I’ve been wearing it every day for the past month, trying to make it fit.

My office. Project Manager, the nameplate says. I’m twenty-eight years old and terrified someone will realize I don’t belong here.

I adjust the family photo on my desk. Mom, Dad, my sister Claire, and all of us squinting into the sun at Navy Pier. Five years ago, before Dad got sick. Before I...