The most popular girl in school asked me to prom while everyone else mocked my weight—20 years later, she didn't recognize me, and I used that to my advantage.

She was already moving toward the door when I caught her arm.

"Take my car," I said.

"It's faster."

"Marcus, I can't —"

"Charlotte." I held her gaze.

"Go."

She went.

I followed her down to the garage, handed her the keys to the Range Rover, and watched her pull out before I could say another word.

Then I stood alone in the silence of the underground level, the fluorescent light humming overhead, and I thought about Danny.

I had never met him.

But I knew his face.

I had kept that photo for twenty years — him at maybe twelve years old, holding a red balloon at what looked like a school fair, grinning so wide his eyes had nearly closed.

Charlotte had shown it to me at prom, pulled it from her small clutch bag like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"He made me promise to take a photo with the most interesting person there," she'd said.

"So I need one with you."

I had laughed.

I hadn't believed her.

But she'd meant it.

I went back upstairs and sat down at my desk.

The envelope was still on the table where she'd left it, the flap open, the contents shifted but not removed.

I didn't look inside.

I already knew what was there.

Forty minutes later, my phone rang.

"Marcus." Her voice was steadier than I expected.

"He's okay.

It wasn't — they said it was a reaction to a new medication.

They've stabilized him."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"Where are you now?"

"Still at the home.

Sitting with him." A pause.

"He's asleep.

He looks so small in that bed."

"Stay as long as you need."

"The car —"

"I'll get it tomorrow.

Charlotte." I stopped.

"Is he getting good care there?"

The silence that followed told me everything before she spoke.

"It's the only place I could afford," she said finally.

"It's not bad.

The staff are kind.

But the facility is old, and there's a waiting list for the better programs, and I've been trying to get him moved for eight months and every time I call they say the same thing." Her voice thinned.

"They say he doesn't qualify for the priority tier."

"What does the priority tier require?"

"A funding sponsor.

Someone who can guarantee the placement costs for a minimum of two years."

I picked up a pen.

Set it back down.

"Come back when you're ready," I said.

"We're not finished talking."

She was quiet for a moment.

"Marcus, the envelope.

I can't accept that.

It's too much."

"You didn't read the second page."

"What second page?"

"Come back," I said again.

"Drive safe."

I ended the call and sat for a long time looking at the wall of photographs.

Her face at seventeen, laughing at something off-camera.

The newspaper clipping from a magazine spread she'd done at twenty-two, her name in small print beneath a photo that had made her look like someone who would always be fine.

She had not always been fine.

I opened my laptop and pulled up the name of the care facility she'd mentioned when she first sat down — Maplewood Residential, out on the east side of the city.

I found their website in under a minute.

Outdated design.

A photo of a garden that looked nothing like the satellite image.

A phone number with no after-hours option.

Then I searched for the director's name.

A man named Gerald Pruitt.

Registered since 2019.

One complaint filed with the state oversight board, dismissed on procedural grounds.

A second complaint, still open.

I wrote the name down.

Then I heard the elevator.

Charlotte stepped back into the apartment just after eleven.