On a side table there’s a picture of my sister before her breakdown—she’s much better now; I saw her a month ago and she was basically back on track and very scathing about everyone else’s mental health, which is probably entirely fair. There’s another of my mother smiling toothily, and one of my father with a huge fish we caught one summer, a third of me accepting my degree from the Old Girl: "Your work has meraki, Constantine Kyriakos. It’s got your heart in it. It is the thing that you are. You should stay here, with us, and do this. It will not make you rich, but it is best."