“What guest room?” I said. “The house looks full.”

Before she could answer, a voice came from the living room sofa like a rusted hinge. “Ellen! Iced tea. Extra lemon this time.”

Sandra Voss — eight years younger than my mother — was summoning her by first name. And my mother turned toward the refrigerator on reflex.

I put a hand on her shoulder and anchored her where she stood. I looked at my brother.

“Why is our mother sleeping on a cot beside the spin cycle?”

Derek’s smile held, but his eyes went cold. “Stairs are bad for her knee, Iris. You’d know that if you’d been around to help. But you were on the other side of the planet.”