When we reached the church lot, the fellowship door opened like a theater wing. Zoe stood there, chin high. “Blue blankets firehouse,” she announced, pointing like an usher. “Green blankets hall. If you’re carrying a photo, you get the comfortable chair.”
Liam hoisted the knit cap in greeting; May clapped once and then hid her hands in the sleeves like shy applause. The older man with the coffee urn had found tea bags; he poured hot water into paper cups and called it “house blend with loyalty.”
Back for more.
The second trip felt heavier because the halls were getting darker. The generator gave a cough that put everyone’s shoulders closer to their ears. Somewhere below, water talked to the foundation in a language of glugs.
Room 217 housed a gentleman with eyes like summer sky and a folded flag on the closet shelf. “That’s his,” the nurse said, quick. “Don’t leave it.”
