than half of what I earned in two weeks.
So I called.
A thin voice answered on the fourth ring.
“You’re looking for a granddaughter?” I said.
“Sunday at two. Wear something soft. The address is on the flyer.”
That was all.
That Sunday, an 84-year-old woman opened the door, one hand against the wall for balance. Her silver hair was pinned with a comb.
“I don’t need a nurse,” she said. “I need someone to sit at my table and pretend this house still has a family.”
I shifted
