“It’s a rain coming,” Mr. Nickelsen said, wandering to the window, looking out.

She lay back on the pillow. There were wet cloths by the bed. Ronny looked at Ben, who was red faced, jaw grinding. “She might like a glass of ice water, Ben,” he said, and Ben looked at him, face relaxing some.

Mrs. Nickelsen nodded that she would, hand trembling on the side of the bed, reaching for one of the cloths. Ben strode into the kitchen. Ronny sat on the bed and took the cloth, wiped her mouth with it. He set the pan on the table and adjusted her blanket. She looked fixedly at the ceiling, breathing with effort at first, then more easily. He cleaned her face carefully. Mr. Nickelsen watched for a moment by the window.

Ben held the glass of water to her lips, took the cloth from Ronny, and sat on the other side of the bed. “You can rinse your mouth out and spit in the cloth,” Ben said.

She nodded and did. Ben gave her more water and Mr. Nickelsen continued to hover. “Take the pan to the bathroom, Dad,” Ben said, and Mr. Nickelsen sighed heavily, did as he was told, gray and frightened, wishing for his chair, most likely.

Ronny had moved away from the bed and tucked himself into the corner of a brown plaid couch, ruffled along the bottom, while Ben sat on a stool near his mother, talking to her quietly. But it made him restless to sit still, to feel useless. The room was pleasant enough, furnished with this ordinary couch and chairs, modular tables, basic clean lines. When the room was tidy it likely had a pleasant aspect, but at the moment it was littered with newspapers, paper plates, glasses partly filled with tea or soda, cups where coffee had dried on the bottom. From the couch he could see the backyard, neatly kept but also in need of mowing, like the front, hydrangeas in bloom along a fence, a brick patio extending out from the sliding doors, some yard furniture visible.

He slipped into the kitchen and found another mess in there, dishes waiting to be washed, food out of the cupboards, a floor that needed sweeping and mopping, a laundry room full of dirty clothes. The idea that he might sort this out became a relief, a way to keep out of the way, something to do. He took the clean dishes out of the dishwasher, opening cabinets and drawers until he found places for them, and started loading the dirty ones, gathering them from wherever they were. The action was a reflex with him; he had done his share of housework when he lived with his mother. He had made enough room to clean the counters, started the dishwasher, and was sweeping the floor when Ben came to the doorway.

He looked around the room. Taking a few steps in. He was maybe a little embarrassed. “I didn’t bring you to do this. My dad and I should be cleaning.”