Ethan carried the navy blue medical binder under his left arm as he unlocked the passenger door of our station wagon.

He turned back toward the steps and held his right hand out flat so my mother could rest her elbow on his forearm.

Martha came down the two wooden steps slowly, her boots making two solid thuds on the dry pine.

Her right hand rested openly across the lapel of her wool coat, the slight tremor visible in the bright cold air, uncovered and unhidden.

“The physical therapy office moved its entrance to the south side of the building,” Ethan said, helping her into the front seat.