A facility worker rolled a metal hamper full of clean yellow hospital gowns past the security desk, its little wheels squeaking on the polished floor.

I stood with Caleb at the double glass pane and gazed out into the dark of the Oakridge visitor lot.

Pale orange pools from the overhead lamps lay across four rows of empty asphalt spaces.

My mother’s silver sedan wasn’t parked in any of them.

“Is that her car?” Caleb asked, pointing at a dark blue station wagon near the entrance to the ambulance bay.

“No,” I said.