Ethan carried the navy blue medical binder under his left arm while he unlocked the passenger door of our station wagon.

He turned back toward the steps, holding his right hand out flat so my mother could rest her elbow against his forearm.

Martha stepped down the two wooden risers slowly, her boots making two solid thuds against the dry pine.

Her right hand rested openly across her wool coat lapel, the slight tremor visible in the bright cold air, uncovered and unhidden.

“The physical therapy office moved their entrance to the south side of the building,” Ethan said, helping her into the front seat.