My parents used their ten minutes.

My father’s hands shook so badly that he dropped a set of packing-tape rolls onto the gravel, and my mother kept her eyes fixed on the driveway, terrified the promised sheriff’s cruiser would appear before they could get away.

They did not say goodbye.

They did not ask where Grandma would sleep that night, or how she would manage, or whether she was all right.

They simply closed the trunk, climbed into the front seats, and drove down the long driveway without once looking back in the mirror.