Margaret lay propped against her raised pillows, her hair combed smooth to one side.

Her hand lay in mine, frail and as light as a corn husk, her nails pale against my palm.

She slowly opened her eyes, looked up at me, and squeezed my fingers with sudden, deliberate strength.

“Have you kept that brass key safe, Tommy?” she asked.

“It’s in my jacket pocket,” I said, touching my coat where the metal lay against my pastoral logbook.

“Good,” she whispered, her voice hardly rising above the steady hum of the monitor on the wall.