The drive to Marfa took an hour.
Empty highway stretching west through desert that looked like God had decided halfway through that earth tones were enough. Creosote and dust and heat already shimmering off the asphalt even though it was barely nine in the morning. The landscape was brutal in its simplicity—no trees to speak of, just scrub and sand and the occasional windmill standing sentinel against the sky.
I didn't have the radio on.
The silence felt easier than whatever noise might try to fill it. My thoughts were loud enough.
The care facility sat on the outskirts of town, a low sprawling complex built from adobe and stone that blended into the landscape instead of fighting it. Expensive. The kind of place that didn't advertise because the people who could afford it already knew it existed. Referrals only. Waiting lists. Connections that mattered.
We'd chosen it carefully. Best doctors. Best staff. Private rooms with views that stretched for miles. Gardens and therapy programs and a dignity they tried to preserve even when the disease stripped everything else away.
Money couldn't buy her memory back, but it could buy her comfort.
That's what we told ourselves when the guilt got too heavy.
I parked in the shade of a mesquite tree and sat for a moment, hands still on the wheel, engine ticking as it cooled. The building looked peaceful. Almost beautiful, if you didn't know what it was. Gardens lined the walkways, native plants chosen because they thrived in the heat without needing much water. Ocotillo and desert marigold and prickly pear blooming red against the dust, hummingbird feeders hanging from metal posts.
I imagined my mother walking through them barefoot, the way she used to walk through the grass at home, shoes kicked off the second she stepped outside, laughing when my father told her she'd step on something that would bite.
The thought made my chest ache.
I got out of the truck and walked inside, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft hiss.
The lobby was cool and quiet, designed to soothe rather than stimulate. Soft colors—sage green and warm beige. Natural light filtering through large windows. The faint sound of water trickling from a fountain somewhere I couldn't see, meant to calm agitated minds.
A nurse looked up from the front desk, her smile practiced but genuine. Young. Maybe thirty. The kind of person who chose this work because they believed it mattered. "Good morning. Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Elaine Dane."
Her expression shifted into something warmer, more personal. "Of course. We're just getting her ready for the day. Would you like some coffee while you wait?"
"Sure. Thank you."
She gestured toward a sitting area near the windows, comfortable chairs arranged around low tables with magazines no one read. "Make yourself comfortable. It shouldn't be long."
I took the coffee—decent, better than I expected, served in real mugs instead of paper cups—and sat where I could see the hallway.
The next ten minutes passed slowly.
Staff moved through the halls with quiet efficiency. Nurses checking charts, speaking in low voices. Orderlies pushing carts laden with breakfast trays and medications. A doctor paused to speak with a family huddled near the corridor, their faces drawnwith exhaustion and grief, shoulders bent under weight they'd been carrying too long.
I watched it all with a detachment I'd learned in the field. Observe. Process. Don't engage unless necessary. Stay objective. Emotions compromised operations.
An elderly man shuffled past, guided gently by a nurse who spoke to him like he was a child—encouraging, patient, kind. He smiled at nothing, eyes vacant, lost somewhere inside his own mind where none of us could reach him.
I looked away, throat tight.
I'd rather take a bullet to the head than end up in a place like this. Quick and clean. Over before you knew what happened. Not this slow erosion, this gradual disappearance while your body kept breathing.
The thought came unbidden, cold and certain.
So, what kind of man was I that I'd put my mother here?
A coward. The same kind who couldn't step foot on his father's ranch. Who killed coyotes from a distance and called it protection. Who built weapons because that was easier than building a life.
"Mr. Dane?"
I looked up. The nurse stood nearby, her smile patient, hands clasped in front of her.
