“I’m a journalist,” Susan said. “Mrs. Larson has information on a story I’m working on.”

The woman’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Gloria Larson?” she repeated. “Our Gloria?” She still hadn’t uncrossed her arms.

Susan smiled at her and tried to look like someone who wore lip liner, just not today, because she had forgotten.

“It’s very important I talk to her,” Susan explained. “She called me. She wants to help.”

“What did you do to your hair?” the woman asked.

“It’s a shade of Manic Panic,” Susan said with a sigh. “Deadly Nightshade.”

Susan’s hair seemed to light a match in the woman’s imagination and she looked hard at Susan’s head, like she was inspecting the fat content of a candy bar she was considering buying, and then her painted eyebrows shot up, her arms dropped, and she beamed. “Susan Ward,” she said. “I recognize you now. I read your column. Remember the one about the blind guy who stole the car?”

Why did people always feel the need to remind her about stuff she herself had written about? “I do remember that, yes,” Susan said.

The woman clapped her hands, delighted. “He made it a half mile before he crashed into a tree and they arrested him.”

It wasn’t even a good story. Susan had written that column in ten minutes. She’d been late to a movie. “That was a funny one,” she said.

The woman leaned forward conspiratorially. “I cut it out and sent it to my niece in Florida.”

“So, about Gloria,” Susan said.

“I’m getting to it.”

Ten minutes later Susan was riding the elevator with the director of the Mississippi Magnolia Assisted Living Facility. Fiftyish, he introduced himself as Barry. He had on tan pants and a blue button-down, no tie. An array of phones and beepers were arranged on his belt.

“She phoned you in the middle of the night?” he asked.

“Yes,” Susan said.

“That makes sense. It’s when she’s most lucid.“

“Alzheimer’s?” Susan asked.

“Dementia, bundled with Parkinson’s-like symptoms. She’s never gotten a firm diagnosis.” The elevator stopped and they followed him into a dimly lit hall. “At her age, the docs aren’t very aggressive.”

“How old is she?” Susan asked.

“Eighty-five,” Barry said. He stopped at a door where a plastic Christmas wreath still hung, and knocked. “She came to us two years ago,” he continued, “when her daughter could no longer take care of her. She’s a lovely woman.” He lowered his voice. “But she’s in and out.”

The door opened and a wizened face appeared. She was tall, for an old person, maybe five-eight. Her white hair was clipped back at the base of her neck, and she was dressed nicely in a pair of slacks, a blouse, and a cardigan. She looked at them with questioning blue eyes.