“Quite alright,” I said, smoothing a piece of hair back into the chignon at my neck. I always wore my long brown hair pulled straight back despite the nagging of my friend Harriet, who was forever urging me to visit her hairdresser. He’ll work a miracle on you! she would say, insisting that my look was too severe and old-fashioned, that the right cut would bring out my blue eyes, my cheekbones. But I liked myself the way I was. The hairstyle that had served me for the last three years would continue to suffice.

“So how can we help you today?” the young man across from me asked, and I turned my attention to him. He was rather short and plain, but there was a sweetness to his face, a gentleness to his expression that reminded me of my brother. “Do you have a parent with a situation that needs our services?” he continued. “Because we do have to consider cases based on financial need…”

His voice trailed off as I placed my phenomenally expensive ostrich-skin briefcase on my knees and began working the gold-plated combination lock. The case had been a gift from my boss, who was generous to a fault and always spent far too much money on gifts. A thrifty person myself, I had never been comfortable with the briefcase, but I didn’t return it for fear of hurting his feelings, knowing that somehow he would eventually find out.

“Tell me about your organization,” I said as I clicked the first number into place. “I understand you’re in three states now?”

“Four, as of last week,” the woman answered. “We set up a little satellite office in Detroit, and already it’s being swamped with applications.”

She went on to tell me how their company was a nonprofit organization that specialized in the relocation of the elderly. Specifically, they helped older people with limited financial resources make the difficult transition from independent to assisted living, from their own homes into retirement villages or nursing homes. This organization helped find housing, do the paperwork, pack possessions, sell extraneous belongings—they even offered psychological counseling to guide their clients through the emotional experience of letting go and saying goodbye.

Of course, everything the woman told me I already knew. I knew that and much more.

It was my job to know.

“So are you a reporter or something?” the son asked, still eyeing my briefcase. “’Cause we’ve been trying to get some more exposure. We think we might stir up a few donations if we could get on the local news.”

I finally got the lock undone. I opened the lid and reached inside the front pocket for the familiar rectangle of paper that was waiting there.

“Actually, I’m not a reporter,” I said. “I’m from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation.”

It took a moment for that to sink in, but when it did the mother and son looked at each other in surprise.

“The grant!” the woman said. “I nearly forgot we applied for that. Are you here to get some more information?”