Forty-one names, forty-one amounts, in her handwriting.

The second round had no sheet. She reconstructed it from memory and from asking four people, and she flagged everything she was not certain about, and she was right about the ones I could verify.

Sixty-three people total. Twenty thousand four hundred and eighty dollars.

The smallest was twenty dollars. The largest was fifteen hundred, from a woman named Priya Raghunathan whose own sister had gone through cancer treatment in Boston six years earlier and who had, Dolores told me, written the check the same afternoon and then called Everett to offer to connect me with her sister’s oncologist.

Everett had told her I was too weak for calls.

I booked a room at a Marriott near the Perimeter and I asked Dolores to send one email to the sixty-three, which said that Stella Whitlock was alive, that there had never been a diagnosis, and that she would be in Atlanta from the fourteenth to the twenty-second and would meet anyone who wanted to be met.