“When do I start?”
He almost smiled. For one second, he seemed like a man relieved to place his burden onto someone else’s shoulders.
“Saturday. And Jeremy. Don’t get attached.”
I nodded, already aware that I had agreed to become somebody I was not.
The corridor of the nursing home smelled like disinfectant and faded roses. My hands were clammy as I repeated the name Tim had drilled into me on the phone the previous night.
Room 214. I knocked once, opened the door, and walked in.
Rosie was sitting beside the window with a thin blanket folded over her knees. She lifted her head slowly, blinking against the afternoon brightness.
“Mama,” I said, the word feeling unfamiliar on my tongue. “It’s me. Tim.”
For a long while, she only searched my face. Then her entire expression softened, and she lifted a shaking hand toward me.
“There you are!” she whispered.
