“You absolutely cannot leave her here like this—not when she’s clearly in this state of mind,” Callie pleaded, reaching out toward the old woman.

Joel shifted the truck into gear.

“We have lives to live, Callie, and you don’t have a husband or kids to look after, so you’ve got plenty of time.”

The truck roared to life and sped off down the quiet suburban street before Callie could even gather the strength to tell them off.

Geneva’s old leather suitcase lay by the gate, half-open and spilling out dirty laundry, an incomplete bag of medications, and a single faded photograph from her youth.

The first few days in the small apartment were a silent, living hell that pushed the limits of Callie’s sanity and patience.

Geneva would wake in the middle of the night screaming at the top of her lungs that someone was trying to break in to steal her antique jewelry.

Then she’d spend the next several hours weeping quietly because she couldn’t find her husband, who had passed away twelve years ago.

Sometimes she recognized Callie and squeezed her hand with surprising strength; other times she pushed her away in fear, asking who this stranger was.