“Which doctor appointment?” I asked, adjusting my watch strap against my wrist.
“The orthopedic specialist,” Arthur said. “The one for my shoulder. Robert said they called to cancel it because the doctor was out of town, but I received a postcard in the mail yesterday asking why I did not show up.”
I stood up and walked down the narrow carpeted hallway to his bedroom, leaving him with the warm water. The air in the back of the house was cold, smelling of old cedar and winter coats.
I pulled open his bedside table drawer. A gold-rimmed pair of reading glasses sat on top of a stack of library notices and a dated medical receipt for his blood pressure medication.
I reached deeper into the drawer, past the small plastic pillboxes. My fingers brushed a smooth, heavy paper folder hidden beneath a spare wool sweater.
I pulled it out and opened it under the weak glow of the bedside lamp.
