“Twenty minutes,” Wade said.

“The clerk’s taking off her coat right now.”

By ten thirty the marriage license was officially recorded in the county ledger, and Wade was driving my 2004 Buick LeSabre up the hill to Oakridge Community Hospital.

The hospital chapel sat at the end of the quiet second-floor hall, lit by two narrow stained-glass panels showing yellow lilies against a gray sky.

Helen had wheeled Margaret down in a high-backed chair, wrapped in a blue knitted shawl over her white hospital gown.