And I would need either a scholarship or a band to recognize me. There was no way I could pay for like eight years of college. 

I went back to staring at my research on my father. I had Googled his name and the approximate date he went to prison. I was pretty sure I had the year right, I was five or six, so about ten years ago.

There was a George Maracle in Kingston Penitentiary, but it couldn’t be my dad. This guy was in for murder, a life sentence. My dad had just robbed a liquor store.

Hadn’t he?

How could I find out? The news website had an old photo, but it was grainy and I couldn’t tell if it was him or not.

What now, what now? My birth records? Would they show his band number?

Shelly would know.

She was knitting on the couch, supervising the kids watching some weird cartoon they liked. She looked up when I came in, putting the knitting aside and patting the cushion beside her. 

“Excellent timing, this show is driving me nuts, and it’s a marathon.”

I smiled and sat on the edge of the couch. I barely registered that I was poised to take off, but Shelly noticed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been looking at medical schools.”

“I see.” She nodded, and I saw that she must have done the same search. She didn’t look hopeful.

“My marks suck. I’ll never even be looked at by ...