“I called their front desk yesterday to make sure there’s a flat ramp near the door.”

Martha adjusted her seatbelt, clicking the plastic buckle into place on the first try.

“You didn’t have to call ahead, Ethan,” Martha said, her quiet voice carrying across the driveway.

“I checked the address on Tuesday,” Ethan said, closing her door gently before walking around to the driver’s side.

“I wanted to be sure before we left the house.”

He pulled the station wagon out onto Oak Street, staying five miles under the speed limit as he eased through the slush at the corner.

“Rachel said your garden beds need the soil turned before April,” Ethan said, glancing at the rearview mirror.