Hazzley showed the others the obituary she had clipped from the Wilna Creek Times. It was decided that they would take two cars on Saturday: Tom and Hazzley in the Jeep; Gwen driving Allam and Chiyo. They would meet outside the church and go in together. Cass and Rice had told Hazzley they’d be there, too, and would wait in the parking lot until the company arrived.

“There’s one other thing,” said Hazzley. She looked down and then directly at Tom. She had poured tea, and everyone was sitting back, enjoying being in Hazzley’s home.

“Something we should do for Addie?”

“Something I need help with here. In the house. Something about . . . well, taking charge of my own space. Clearing debris.”

“I’ll help,” said Chiyo, always ready to jump in.

“And I,” said Gwen, who knew a great deal about clearing debris.

The two men had already stood up.

Hazzley led her friends down into the basement. The hellhole of my existence, she told herself. But no longer. When she opened the half door to the old coal bin and pulled back the tarp for the others to see, she felt like a small child who was about to be punished. Everyone stared in.

“Lew was an alcoholic,” she said, and this came out as a stutter. “These are the bottles. In the boxes. I’ve never been able to face up.” She felt a firm arm around her—Gwen. And then Chiyo hugged her.

Tom patted her arm and went straight to work. “We can have this cleared out in no time, Hazzley.”

Allam had already hoisted a box over one shoulder and was partway up the stairs.

They followed each other up and down the stairs, doing what had to be done. Carting boxes, filling the trunks and back seats of the three cars until everything was loaded. One trip was going to be enough.

“There’s a bulk return location here in the city, Hazzley,” Tom told her. “We’ll take them there. You’re going to receive a chunk of money for these, you know.”

“I don’t want the money. Not a bit of it,” said Hazzley. “If we’re paid for the bottles, let the money go to charity.”

“We know of a place that needs supplies,” said Tom. “An art program for young children.” He looked to Allam, who agreed. “Syrian children who are adjusting to this country. The money could be put to good use there.”

Hazzley led the others in her car, with Tom in her passenger seat, pointing the way. By the time they’d finished unloading and sorting and dealing with every last bottle, it was after six. Chiyo had to leave for her class.

Hazzley drove Tom back to his house.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. “The others, too. I think I really believed I’d never clear those out of the basement. It’s hard to explain how difficult that was.”

“I think I do understand. Sometimes it’s impossible to make a move. Even though we’d be better for it. We can all use a hand now and then.”