“Did she say the Wheeler Center, Mum? Do you think I should...? We could check...”

I nodded yes, and Norman picked up Leonard’s phone and started typing into Google search. After a few seconds his forehead wrinkled into a frown and he slowly turned the phone around to face me. On the screen was a slick-looking photo of a grim brick administration building. There were a few well-dressed elderly people staged in the foreground like mannequins, pushing walkers, chatting to young people, patting dogs and generally looking happy and content. Across the front of the entrance to the building was a large sign.

Fred Wheeler Dementia Care Center

Secure Residential Unit

Why had Leonard received a total of twenty-seven calls from this place since we left Penzance? New cleaning job, maybe? But why hadn’t he mentioned it? As I scrolled through the website, the phone suddenly dimmed and gave a low-battery warning. After trying to plug it into my charger and realizing it didn’t fit, Norman opened up Leonard’s duffel and did some delicate rummaging with no luck, then sat back on his haunches with a look of concentration on his face.

“I know I saw him with it yesterday, Mum. I remember because he nearly left it behind at...oh, wait! I know!”

He sprang up and went over to where Leonard’s coat was hanging on the chair, reached into the inside pocket and, within seconds, he was holding the charger triumphantly in the air, as the rest of the contents of the pocket fluttered to the floor.

I plugged the phone into the wall and Norman began gathering up the folded hanky, two pencils, half a packet of Mentos and a couple of pieces of paper that had dropped out to put back in Leonard’s coat. I was engrossed back in the Wheeler Center website when I looked up and Norman was standing in front of me.

“Mum, look at this,” he said quietly.

One of the pieces of paper that had fallen out of Leonard’s pocket was in his hand. He passed it over to me and I immediately saw why it had caught his eye. Printed across the top of the torn-off piece of headed paper were the words Fred Wheeler Dementia Care Center. There were some handwritten details below the letterhead in neat cursive.

Cobcroft CL1576. New Admissions. Level 2. Bring signed forms, personal effects, medications.

There was a date and time on the piece of paper, which I quickly calculated was the day before we left on our trip. I stared at the words, trying to work out what exactly I was looking at, and my eyes were drawn back to the phone on my lap. I glanced between the paper and the Wheeler Center website several times, and as my focus adjusted, the words “secure” and “dementia” jumped out of the phone screen and started to do a little tap dance in front of my eyes. There was a second when they seemed to pause for effect, before taking a low, flourishing bow to herald a flurry of dropping pennies.