Paler.
As if she hadn’t slept in days.
I dropped the hose I had been winding beside my garage.
“Marjorie?”
Her head lifted. For one hopeful moment, I thought she might walk toward me.
Before I could reach her, Owen appeared beside her, gently took her arm, and led her back inside.
“She needs to rest,” he said.
“Marjorie, are you all right?” I called.
She glanced over her shoulder.
For just a second.
Her smile disappeared.
The door closed before she answered.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about the look on her face.
I tried to reason with myself.
Older people lose weight. They become tired. They needed more help than they admitted.
Owen had done nothing openly threatening, and accusing someone based on a curtain and a frightened glance felt reckless.
Still, I barely slept.
Two days later, a pharmacy called me by mistake.
“Hello, is this Marjorie’s emergency contact?” the woman asked.
