Her face was perfectly smooth, her gray hair pinned back in its usual low twist.

“She needs to learn her place before she sits at my table,” my mother said, her voice slipping into the quiet, formal tone she used when she gave orders to clinic staff.

“Open the latch,” I said.

“The latch is right in front of you, Clara,” my mother said, pointing a manicured finger at the little brass slide mounted on the frame.

“Nobody locked her in with a key.