“I called their front desk yesterday to make sure they have a flat ramp near the door.”

Martha adjusted her seatbelt, her fingers clicking the plastic buckle into place on the first try.

“You did not have to call ahead, Ethan,” Martha said, her quiet voice carrying across the driveway.

“I checked the address on Tuesday,” Ethan said, closing her door gently before walking around to the driver’s side.

“I wanted to be sure before we left the house.”

He pulled the station wagon out onto Oak Street, keeping his speed five miles below the limit as he negotiated the slush at the corner.