“I’ll have the books balanced by Monday evening,” I said, sliding forty-five dollars into a paper bank deposit sleeve.

“I visited Margaret Miller at the hospital on my morning rounds.”

Arthur quit polishing his signet ring, his heavy hand going still against his pinky.

“Margaret’s back in Oakridge?” he asked.

“She was admitted to room 214 yesterday,” I said.

“Her son had her moved from Marion.”

Arthur set the repair bill on the corner of my desk and leaned forward, his silver eyebrows drawing together.

“She belongs in a specialized care facility in Marion, Tom, not lingering on some local community ward,” Arthur said.