I didn’t answer.
Wednesday 2:09 PM: “Draft obituary template attached. If you don’t want to use it, that’s fine. Ignore this if it’s out of line.”
The PDF opened slick and blue on my screen: “Dean, just put your edits in the yellow fields.” I stared at the boxes—Name, Date of Birth, Special Memories, Photo Upload Here—and felt something twist inside me, sharp as a bent staple.
Wednesday 5:42 PM: “Let me know if you need food. I can drop something by. I’m around most nights after six.”
I almost replied. Instead, I closed my eyes and pictured her making the offer out loud, the way her mouth went crooked when she tried to act casual. I wondered if she was this efficient with everyone, or just the hopeless cases like me.
Thursday 12:13 PM: “I can sit with the dog if you want to go out. Or I can sit with you, if that’s better. No pressure.”
That one stuck. I read it twelve times, thumb hovering over the keyboard, cycling through all the ways to say “thank you” without sounding like a child.
Sergeant watched me from the living room, her tail a metronome against the worn-out rug. I rolled the tags in my hand, let the chain bite a circle into my palm, and finally typed:
“You were right about the obituary. I keep screwing it up. If you have time, maybe you could look over what I’ve got. I can’t get the words to line up.”
The message sent with a blue whoosh. The minute after felt longer than any church service I’d ever sat through, the air in the apartment pressing in until I had to stand and pace the hallway. The only sound was the rattle of my boots on the floor and the faint, hopeful whimper of the dog, who never asked for anything but the next meal and a place to sleep.
When the reply came, it was a single line: “Of course. I’m free tonight. Just let me know when.”
I let the phone go dark, held the silence in my hands, and felt the smallest crack in the concrete wall of my chest.
***
At seven sharp, a knock landed on my door. Not the rattle of knuckles looking to collect, or the muted thump of someone trying to avoid attention—just a solid, matter-of-fact three-count. I braced for a neighbor or the club’s errand boys, but when I opened up, it was Emily, arms full of takeout bags and her hair caught in a windblown mess that made her look less like a caseworker and more like someone real.
She stepped inside without a greeting, holding out the bag. The warmth hit me first—rosemary, garlic, fresh bread still radiating from the paper. It overwhelmed the apartment’s usual hangover of old coffee, engine grease, and laundry that never quite dried right.
“Did you eat yet?” she asked.
I shook my head, surprised by how much I meant it.
She scanned the kitchen in one glance, found the drawer with the forks, then the battered plates from the cabinet above the stove. She didn’t ask, just moved with the assurance of someone who’d made herself at home in stranger places. I watched her from the doorway, unable to decide if I was supposed to help or just stay out of the way.
Sergeant circled her feet, tail up, hopeful. Emily bent to scratch her behind the ears, then pointed at the rug by thefridge. “You sit there. Guard the bread.” The dog obeyed like it was a new job assignment.
She set the table—two plates, two glasses, the paper napkins folded into neat triangles. She poured water from the tap and checked the level before sliding it across. “You look like you haven’t slept in days,” she said, not unkindly.
I glanced at the hallway mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, the shadows underneath sharp enough to cut. “I’ve been busy,” I said, as if that explained anything.
We sat across from each other, a loaf of sourdough between us. She opened the takeout containers—herbed chicken, roasted potatoes, a side of wilted greens—and nudged one plate in my direction. She ate with quick, efficient bites, her focus absolute. I forced myself to do the same, finding I was hungrier than I’d thought.
Sergeant took her post beneath my chair, nose twitching. Emily slipped her a potato chunk every so often, as if it was part of some deal they’d made.
After a few minutes, Emily dabbed her mouth and leaned back, eyes on the pile of papers at the edge of the table. “Obituary?” she asked.
I nodded and pushed the stack her way, keeping my hand on top a beat too long. She waited, patient, until I let go. She pulled the first sheet, scanned the lines, and made a thoughtful sound.
“You want me to read it out loud?” she said.
“No,” I said, then realized I didn’t care. “Yeah. Sure.”
She started with the basics, her voice steady and neutral. Dolores Medina, born 1955, Española. She read the sentences I’d cobbled together about Ma’s work at the college, the years spent running a one-woman household after my father died. She paused at the list of hobbies, “rescuing stray animals and crocheting blankets,” and smiled, small but sincere.
“This is good,” she said, “but I think it’s missing you.”
I bristled, defensive. “It’s not about me.”
