"How are you feeling?" I ask.

"The same." It’s always the same. I put the remote down next to the crystal vase. The flowers I’d brought last time have withered. The once-bright petals have turned the color of dried blood and the water looks like weak tea. I take hold of the stems and, dripping on the stippled tile, carry the dead things over to the garbage pail and drop them in. "I’m sorry I didn’t bring fresh ones."

I come back and sit beside him. The chair has a chrome-plated frame and vinyl cushions that smell like warm vomit. He looks old, older than anyone I’ve ever seen. He used to have a full head of hair, even in his early seventies. But he’s completely bald now. Chemotherapy has taken its toll.

"Why don’t you ever bring Tess with you?" he asks.

I look out the window. Toronto in February is a gray city, like a photograph printed in half-tones. The last of the snow, old and dirty, has been eroded by the first spring rains, forming hoodoos at the sides of the roads. Wellesley Street is streaked with white salt stains. It’s three in the afternoon and hookers are already at the intersections, wearing heavy fur coats and fishnet stockings. "Tess and I aren’t married anymore," I remind him.

"I always liked Tess."

Me, too. "Dad, I’m going away for a few days."

He doesn’t say anything.

"I’m not sure when I’ll be back."

"Where are you going?"

"Alberta. The Red Deer River valley."

"That’s a long way away."

"Yes. A long way."

"Another dig?"