By sundown, the cars were gone, the RV last, shedding sand down my driveway. Camille faced a formal complaint for attempted exploitation of an older adult, and the reunion’s seventeen guests scattered with their coolers and their questions. Garrett stayed on the porch step, a grown man folded small. He said he had believed Camille when she said I was slipping, because believing her was easier than believing he had stopped calling.

I did not comfort him and I did not send him away. I told him that for forty-three years I had checked on strangers in the night, and I knew exactly what neglect looked like when it came dressed as concern.