No one in the house Enid hadn’t met.

Her chair in the front room was not to be sat in, a rule given no explanation and needing none once I understood whose chair it had been.

The good scissors stayed in the second drawer and came back to the second drawer.

I was to take the bins to the curb Tuesday nights and bring them back Wednesday, help with the stairs to the basement when the laundry needed doing, and drive her to the Thursday grocery and the second-Monday hair appointment, for which the reduced rent was, she made clear, more than fair compensation.

In exchange I had the blue room at the top of the stairs, kitchen privileges “within reason,” and the understanding, stated once and never repeated, that “this is an arrangement, not an adoption.”