Beverly, who had been sleeping in my bed, quietly began stripping the sheets. She asked whether anyone had a ride to the bus station. Nobody answered. By sundown, the cars were disappearing down my driveway, followed by the RV that sent a trail of sand across the gravel. Seventeen relatives arrived expecting a family reunion and left carrying coolers, unanswered questions, and the uncomfortable knowledge that their plans had collapsed.

Camille faced a formal complaint concerning suspected exploitation of an older adult. Garrett remained on my porch, looking smaller than I had ever seen him. He finally admitted that he had believed Camille when she claimed I was losing my memory. Believing her, he confessed, had been easier than admitting how long he had gone without calling his own mother. I listened without interrupting. Then I told him that for forty-three years, I had checked on strangers in the middle of the night, and I knew exactly what neglect looked like when it disguised itself as concern.