“Don’t,” Graham said.
I stopped.
He looked at Wyatt.
“Last night, after I got off the phone with the coordinator, I called Harper’s oncologist at home. I asked her why nobody had told us about Lindwood. She said it was out of state. Out of network. Very new. Very aggressive. She said she was planning to bring it up, eventually, if the next round failed.” He swallowed. “Eventually.”
“And Harper?”
“Harper is eligible,” Graham said. “Her counts qualify. Her history qualifies. Teresa said they almost never get a referral this complete.” He turned to my son. “A fourteen-year-old put together a better medical file on my daughter than her own doctors did. In study hall.”
Wyatt was staring at him.
“You’re not mad?”
“I’m furious,” Graham said. “You lied to a hospital. You lied to your mother. You put my little girl’s picture on the internet without asking anyone. You read her private medical records. You signed my name to forty-one emails.”
