The sentence lands so unexpectedly that you laugh before you can stop yourself.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good. Some people do.” Then she pushes herself upright with visible effort. “Come back next Thursday.”
She does not pay you.
You stand there for a second too long, unsure whether to remind her or whether that would somehow get you labeled disrespectful and cost you the job. Before you can decide, she has already turned away and begun shuffling toward the living room.
You leave telling yourself she probably forgot. Old people forget things. That is one of the few lies the world repeats so often it starts sounding merciful.
The next Thursday you return.
This time you notice things you were too cautious to take in before. The refrigerator contains half a carton of milk, a mustard bottle, three eggs, and a bruised apple. The pantry has canned soup, saltines, and rice. The kitchen clock is fifteen minutes slow. Mrs. Mercer’s hands shake more when she reaches for her tea. There is a prescription bag on the counter from the county hospital pharmacy, folded and refolded until the paper looks exhausted.
