That is the sixteenth time.

The last time.

A woman of eighty-nine, four days after her son forged her signature at a bank counter, standing in a doorway, asking a man to confirm that a line on a form had not been altered.

She died on the twelfth of October.

Fifteen days.

I have reconstructed those fifteen days off a diary, a telephone record and a notebook, and I want to put down what she did with them, because it is the thing I go back to most.

She went nowhere.