“Maybe they’re transporting it. Doing it at home when they have time, and then bringing it to school.”

I stare at her. “In what?”

“In some kind of container. Plastic. Glass. Anything.”

I shiver at the premeditation of such an outlandish theory. Especially at the notion that someone—a kid—could be troubled or angry enough to do something this intentionally devious. The more I think about it, the less I believe it’s a student. “I think it’s a teacher.”

Glenn shrugs, then closes her eyes. I can see that she’s had enough for today. I cover her with the blanket, clear away the glasses, and return with fresh water so she can take her pills. I watch as she struggles to sit up, swallow each mouthful of water, and breathe when she’s finished.

“I wish I didn’t have to leave,” I say. “And the next few days are going to be crazy with Inhabitancy.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got someone coming at the end of the week.”

“A night nurse?” Which is one of the things I know we’ll have to talk about—increasing from the web of daily friend-helpers to professional overnight home health aides.

“No. Daisy.” Her niece. “She’ll stay for the duration.”

My stomach drops. “Already?”

She takes my hand. “It’s time.”

* * *

But it’s not time. I can’t stop thinking about that all the way home. It’s not time. Glenn is only sixty, just ten years older than me. She should be walking laps around the reservoir with Lucy and Charlotte and me while I convince her to try Tinder to give love another chance. She should be coming over for dinner, yelling at Gary to chill when she arrives almost an hour late even though she lives only ten minutes away. She should be here to see Teddy go to high school and college and fall in love. We should have years ahead of us, not weeks.

Dusk is already falling as I make my way along the narrow tree-lined streets between her house and ours the way I have so many times before; weaving in between parked cars and bikes and parents with strollers, all heading home after a long day; the maples already bare and naked, having dropped their leaves weeks ago in piles still waiting to be raked. But this doesn’t feel like all those other times because it’s not. It’s the beginning of another end. Before I know it, before I’m ready, Glenn will be gone, too, and to avoid the pain of memory, I’ll avoid this route, this way home, this reminder of this day and this moment leading up to this loss. The streets already seem unrecognizable. Soon they will feel as foreign to me as a moonscape. Grief obliterates the present, forcing you to relive the past and dread the future.

It takes me a few seconds to realize that I’ve passed my street by several sets of lights, and when I do, I remember that I need to stop and pick up something for dinner—something soft enough for me to eat with my braces, something that Teddy likes, too—so I just keep driving. When I get to Trader Joe’s I park in the lot, grab a hand basket on the way in, and avert my eyes to avoid my reflection in the automatic doors the way I always do.