“I don’t even know her first name,” said Sheila.

“I can’t remember it either.”

There was a bundle of mail on the dresser; her name was either Alberta Delacy, or Mrs. Lou Benning Delacy, or Louise Delancey; the last name was spelled in different ways even in the small stack of bills and advertisements resting on the lace runner. None of the letters looked personal. It did not occur to him that even this much was an invasion of privacy, the reason for the search being so clear, but once he set down the mail he took a deep breath. As though Miss Dee were watching him, but no, she was still asleep, breathing on a small, high-pitched note, fingertips trembling; in a dream she was reaching for something.

She grew more agitated, as though she were trying to wake, straining at a sound that would not become a word, and then he smelled something, dusky at first, and Sheila stood up; she opened her eyes with a cry, helpless; and the front door opened and closed with a particular emphasis, and there was Ben in the doorway, holding a bag, Miss Dee trying to sit up, looking at everyone, frightened, and saying, “I need to get up right now, please, I can’t get up.”

“All right, Miss Dee,” Sheila said.

“Who are you? Are you Minnie?”

“I’m Sheila. You know me. Jamal’s girlfriend.”

By then they could all smell it, that she had soiled herself and the bed. She was fumbling with the bed linens, pulling at them. Her expression was horrified, exhausted. “Oh, I have to get up right now.” But it appeared that she did not know exactly how to do that. She was reaching for her glasses, starting to shake and to weep, incoherent sounds. She was touching Sheila’s wrist. Sheila was frozen. Ben stepped to the bedside. He had set down his bag in the hallway. He found her glasses, slid them carefully onto her nose, and she said, “Oh, thank you.”

“We can help you out of bed if you want,” Sheila said.

“I need to. But I can’t, you know.” She was not moving quite correctly. One of her hands appeared to be too heavy for her to lift it. The smell was stronger now.

“Take off the blankets,” Ronny said. “Leave her covered up by the sheet.”

Ben said, “I’m going to carry you into the bathroom, Miss Dee. Sheila will come with me.”

“That’s right.”

She barely heard them. Tears streaming out of her eyes, along her cheeks, snot starting to pool in her nostrils. Ronny had stripped down the faded quilt and blankets beneath; Ben scooped her up then, ignoring the wet place at the front of her gown, the forlorn, runny turd that dropped out of it when he lifted her, the harsh smell.

It was the sight of Ben carrying Miss Dee, the tiny package of her, bones sharp and distinct inside her feathery flesh, arms and neck, ankles, the shape of her as he carried her, as though the slightest pressure would crumble her. As though she barely had a shape. Ronny’s breath caught like a sob; but he shook his head, started to strip the sheets off the bed, frowning at the smell.