Genetics.

Father and daughter sat in vinyl-covered chairs that were bolted to the floor. Few other people sat in the waiting room. The heavy door of the psychiatric emergency room was closed and locked.

“She’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” Father said, his elbows resting on his knees. He examined the intersection of the lines where the floor tiles met. The wedding band on his finger was loose.

“Yeah. At least you’re not actually related to her,” Daughter murmured, picking at a loose thread in a seam of her jacket.

Father turned his head and looked at Daughter. He leaned back and put his arm around her. She turned away for a few moments, though eventually rested her head against his arm.