My phone filled with calls.

A stranger photographed me outside the dialysis center with my mother.

For the first time since arriving at the mansion, I considered leaving Chicago entirely.

Miriam sat beside me in the hospital waiting room while a rainstorm tapped the window.

“You don’t owe the world a defense of your shoes,” she said.

“That’s not what they’re attacking.”

“I know.

They’re attacking the idea that an ordinary person could notice something they missed.”