The vending machine in the third-floor corridor hummed against the linoleum.

I stood in the harsh light and unfolded the scrap Frank had pushed into my hand.

It was a torn corner of an Oak Creek Hospital form.

Across the blue grid line, Frank had written five words in dark pencil: 414 Birch Street, Pine Ridge.

Heavy shoes squeaked on the floor behind me.

Uncle Gene was coming toward me with two paper cups of black coffee, steam curling up into the cold hallway air.

He glanced at his gold wristwatch before he reached me, his eyes flicking toward the open door of Room 4.

“Nurse says he’s out for the night,” Gene said, his loud voice filling the empty corridor.

“Drink this.

We need to go through his household accounts before tomorrow.”

I twisted my silver wedding band around my thumb, spinning the metal three times against my skin.

“He gave me a note just before he passed out,” I said.

Gene snatched the paper out of my hand before I could fold it up again.

The color drained out of his broad face.