The company I worked for would get brief medical condition summaries on prospective clients along with emergency contacts and known allergies. We were not allowed to give any care or aid under our contract, but depending on the client, some readers got “combat pay", meaning they were going into a home in a dangerous area or with a potentially combative client. Stoffel paid the extra money.

His file said he suffered from “non-specific delusional ideation, persecution complex and moderate catatonia”. Below this, someone had written in “hallucinations-paranoid schizo".

I knew what all that meant, but it didn't really prepare me for what he was like. Most of my time as a reader had been with sweet little old ladies or people who needed company as they recovered from a debilitating injury. Not a madman that rolled his eyes fearfully toward the corner of the room as I read to him, his lips trembling as he closed his eyes tight against something only he could see.

His primary caretaker was his younger sister, Hillary. She was a kind and pretty woman who, if not exactly friendly, was at least always pleasant and polite as she headed out the door, off to take advantage of the break I was giving her. It wasn't until I was there for over a month that I saw what a toll it all was taking on her.

I had gone into the kitchen to tell her I was leaving for the day—this was the first time she had stayed home when I came, but I hadn't glimpsed her after she initially let me in. When I stepped into the kitchen, I saw her sitting at the table, her lips thin and her eyes sunken. I found myself surprised at her expression to the point that, before I could reconsider, I'd asked her if anything was wrong.

She gave a small laugh and gestured toward where her brother lay in the other room. “Aside from that? Aside from him? No, everything else is just peachy.” She glanced up at me as she said the last, and her gaze softened slightly. “Sorry, I don't mean to take it out on you.”

I shook my head. “No need to apologize. I know handling all this is hard. Is there anyone else to help?”

She stared off wistfully. “No, our parents are dead and neither of us has married. When he came back from his trip on the medical transport plane, none of his professor buddies even bothered to show up or visit. It’s like he's already dead to them. Bunch of jealous, selfish assholes.”

Talking to her, I felt like I was walking across an unfamiliar frozen lake. I wanted to go further out, but I had no way of knowing where the thin spots might be. After a moment of silent debate, my curiosity won out.

“What happened to him? Did he just have a breakdown?”