“He’s going to offer you something,” she said.

“They always do, right around now.

Something with a number attached.”

At the kitchen table I spread out Grandma’s medical file the way Clare had spread out the petition, page after page, until the vinyl tablecloth was more paper than table.

Clare came in through the back door at twelve thirty with a newspaper tucked under her arm and a biscuit in a paper bag.

She sat down without being invited and read with one hand while she ate with the other.