“What the…,” I mumbled. “Okay, okay. I’m on it.” My heart beat wildly; something was happening—if it was a tornado touching down in Willow at that very moment, I had no immediate way of finding out. My brain short-circuited for a second as I tried to decide what to do first: text Mom, or check the weather? My fingertip made the decision for me. I tapped my phone to check the weather in Willow. Nothing strange. Gray skies, 60 percent chance of rain at that hour.

Feeling my chest tighten as my breath hastened, I checked local news in Wisconsin, scrolling furiously. My eyes scanned over headlines in search of something—anything—absolutely positive that I’d see a shocking breaking story. The Brewers had won the game the night before against the Reds. The State Assembly was preparing to vote about moving a bunch of coal piles in downtown Green Bay. A new medical facility had been opened in Kaukauna. The bus pulled up to the curb, and I boarded it, so distracted that I knocked shoulders with a guy carrying a skateboard as he passed me to exit.

“Watch it,” he snapped at me.

I mumbled an apology over my shoulder as the doors closed behind me, flashed the driver my fare card, and sank into the closest available seat. As the bus merged into traffic and my heart rate returned to normal, I gave up, clicking my screen off. I couldn’t find proof of anything out of the ordinary happening in Willow, and I was relieved that I hadn’t texted Mom and freaked her out.

And yet the weird feeling persisted.

Once at the assisted living facility, I said hi to my manager, Luis, changed into my uniform, and hurried through my schedule of visiting patients. I was saving Mrs. Robinson for last, but I also wanted to make sure I had enough time remaining at the end of my shift to receive a proper lesson from her about reaching out to Jennie.

And, of course, because that was my plan, every possible thing went wrong on my rounds. Mrs. Schwartz on the second floor—who walked painstakingly slowly with a walker—wanted me to escort her down to the dining room, and she insisted on stopping in the open doorways of all her girlfriends to chat. Mr. Torres asked me to open his mail and read a letter to him from his daughter in Puerto Rico, and I struggled to phonetically sound out words I didn’t recognize from Spanish class. Then Mrs. Jacobson insisted that the dinner she’d received hadn’t been what she’d ordered, and the head of kitchen services angrily told me that she had been pulling this stunt almost every night, and I had to sort that out to make sure she ate something before the kitchen closed.

Finally, with only eight minutes to spare before I had to clock out, I arrived at Mrs. Robinson’s room. “Did you bring the oils and the eggshells?” she demanded the moment I stepped through her doorway.