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"You eat something."

She sets it on the dresser and puts her arms around me. She's petite, and the hug goes on past where I know what to do with it. I hold still. She doesn't say Mackie's name or one word about the babies. I can't tell what her silence is for, but I'm sure as hell not bringing anything up.

At the front desk, Manny slides the clipboard across. The chained pen skates over the line and leaves nothing.

"You remember what I told you about routine. She needs to establish a routine when she gets there."

"She'll be forty minutes from me instead of two thousand miles. I'll be able to help with that more."

He doesn't answer, and he doesn't nod either. He slides the pill organizer across the counter with each day's dose sorted into its own compartment. I understand what he's telling me. Distance I can fix, and what happens inside her head I can't.

I press the pen down harder until the ink catches, and I sign her out for the last time.

It's the middle of June, and I ought to be at the ranch, working. There's hay down in the east field, cut yesterday, and it needs raking before the weather turns. Wade's out there on the rake without me. I know all of this, and I sit in the truck in the memory care lot in town with the engine off, anyway.

The lot's near empty at a quarter past five. Heat comes off the asphalt in a wave even this far north, and a sprinkler ticks against the sidewalk out front. Somewhere behind the building, a mower runs.

She didn't know me today. She called me sir twice, polite the way she gets with strangers, and that's worse than any other kind of bad day. She asked the aide by the door to please call her father, but she meant Wes.

When I tried to get her arms into her cardigan, she grabbed my wrist hard, and her nails caught and dragged. I turn my hand over on my thigh. There are three red lines across the back of it, and one of them is bright where it broke the skin.

My phone goes off in the cup holder, and it's Mackie. We don't talk today. It's not one of our established calls. I grab it on the first ring.

"Yeah."

"Heads up. I'm going to be at my mom's for a while. I fly down on the twentieth."

"Okay."

I don't ask why. The call is off schedule, and if I've learned anything about her, Mackie doesn't take off from work. Something happened, but I won't ask. If something is wrong, she'll tell me.

"How's Hildie liking Wyoming?"

I look at the building, at the double doors and the window of her room, second from the end.

"She's settling in."

"Mom says Dolores misses losing to her."

"I'll tell her."

I won't. Hildie doesn't remember Dolores. The lie comes out as easily as saying I'll top off the truck.

She also doesn't need to know that Hildie called me sir, or that more and more often I'm Wes instead of Carson. I turn my scratched hand palm-down against my leg. Mackie's carrying enough for three people already.

We say our goodbyes, and the line clicks off.

I look at the back of my hand again. The bright line is beading up. I press my thumb over it and hold it there while it stings.

We do everything right. We call when we say we will, I send the money on the first of every month, and she tells me the appointments. Neither one of us has asked for a single minute the other didn't offer.

And when she gives me the chance to tell her something real, I don't. I smile through the phone and let her believe everything is going great.

I set the phone on the dash.

The hay's down, and Wade's waiting. I get out of the truck and walk back toward the doors.

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