The grab bars screwed into the bathroom walls.

The baby monitor on the kitchen counter, still plugged in, its little green light on, listening to an empty room.

The chart on the refrigerator in Terry’s handwriting — meds AM/PM, Dr.

Okaf.

Thurs, Fran has spare key — held up by a magnet shaped like a slice of watermelon that I remembered from childhood.

The recliner in the front room worn through on the arms, angled to face both the television and the window, with a folded afghan and a pill organizer the size of a tackle box on the side table beside it.

My brother had done this.