It’s the eve before our planned eradication, and I’ve gone over our notes so many times, I can’t stand the sight of them. I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room, playing with my new cell phone and listening for the scrape of a key in the kitchen door lock.
I gave Malcolm one a week ago, and now he enters, bringing a blast of icy air with him. He smells like snow and cold and outdoors. There’s a sprinkle of snowflakes clinging to his dark hair.
He shrugs off his coat, revealing a button-down shirt newly decorated with splotches of coffee and tea.
“A rough go today?” I ask. He’s been taking all our routine calls, insisting that I must rest. Now I wonder if that was wise. He’s the one who looks like he needs a rest.
“There’s an overabundance of ghosts at Springside Long-term Care,” he
