“I’ve got no idea, Mom.”

I can see Mema and Grandpa watching through the kitchen window. Mema slides it up slow and easy, so they can hear when Bert clears his throat.

“Ms. Cowan. It has been brought to our attention by a source that would like to go unnamed”—I can feel Mom’s eyes slide toward me—“that you plan to take Ellie home to Nashville. And while we understand your concerns, we would like to ask for the chance to state our case.”

He pauses, and we all wait for Mom to react, but she stays quiet. I let out a little breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Bert hands Coralee the laptop, and she clicks it open to the PowerPoint we spent all of last night on.

“We know Ellie’s pneumonia took a lot out of both of you, and you worry about her care while she remains here in Eufaula.”

He nudges Coralee and she clicks the first slide.

“But if you will take a look at the chart, you will see that the weather here averages eight percent less humidity than in Tennessee.”

Coralee clicks to the next slide and another chart pops up—this one a map of the Southeast next to a map of the Southwest. Bert pulls a laser pointer out of his pocket and points first to Tennessee, then to Oklahoma.

“And because of the slightly later blooming season, our allergens tend to be a good deal tamer than in your typical Southeastern region.”

Mom puts a hand up. “Wait. You two know I love you, but this is not about humidity and allergies. This is about Ellie’s safety.”

“Mom, hear them out.”

“No, Ellie. The closest children’s hospital is in Tulsa. Did you know that? And what about school? They don’t have a proper aide for you. You can’t even ride the bus, for heaven’s sake!”

“Mom, the school’s fine! Riding in the van is fine! And I don’t need an aide!”

I practiced this. Practiced it without yelling, but I can’t stop now. “You don’t understand! I have to stay. Home was so… lonely.” It’s a weak ending, but it’s true.

A second passes while we stare at each other, and another passes while she swallows and blinks like she’s got something in her eye.

“But you will always have me, honey?” Mom says, like it’s a question, and I take a breath and then answer it.

“I know, Mom.” How do you tell your own mom she’s not enough? Or she is, but you want more than just enough? Luckily, I don’t have to, because our ringer comes whistling around the corner.

“Hutch! Mr. Hutchinson!” I say, and wave like this is just such a crazy coincidence.

“Jim! What are you doing here?” Mom stands up and tugs at the sides of her shirt.

“Alice.”