My purse is hanging on the back of my chair, and from one of the inside pockets, I remove a ceramic sculpture I’ve brought from my apartment. The first sculpture I ever made, with the head tilting to one side. I set it on the dresser and tilt my own head to the side, matching the position.

I switch off the lamp, step out of my slippers, and lie down on my back. I pull the heavy duvet up to my chin. The pillow is just the right size, and firm enough to cradle my head.

It’s quiet.

I look up at the blank ceiling, the way I used to do most nights back in my apartment. Maybe we did decide on this together. Maybe he did remind me about this place, about his plan for me, before he died. I suppose I could have forgotten. It would have been a while ago. Maybe I shouldn’t be upset about it. I should enjoy it. I’m here now. The people are nice. The food tastes good. This bed is comfortable.

That fall could have killed me. I have nothing to complain about.

It is an adventure.

I roll over onto my side, exhale, and give in to a deep, restful sleep.

Sunlight spills in through the window. I feel a wet spot on the pillow with my cheek. I must have been drooling. What time is it? I rub both eyes. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept through the night. No bathroom trips. No tossing and turning. I’m in the exact same position I was when I fell asleep.

A faint knock on my door.

“Morning, Penny. It’s just me,” Jack says, stepping into the room.

He’s dressed the same as yesterday. White top and bottoms. Scrubs. A stack of crisp folded towels in his arms.

“Dropping these off for you.”

He walks into the bathroom and returns empty-handed.

“So, how’d you sleep?”

“Well,” I say, swinging my legs out of bed, bringing a hand up to scratch my hair. “Very well. I can’t believe it. I’m just waking up.”

“That’s great. You look rested,” he says.

My hair feels greasy and disheveled, like a bird’s nest.

“When was the last time you had your hair brushed?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

It must look awful. I need a bath.

“I’ll give it a quick brush,” he says.

I flinch when he touches me. I’m reluctant but relent, closing my eyes. With each brushstroke, I feel myself giving in a little more. Giving in to having someone else brush my hair. Giving in to this place. This house. To the food. To the comforts. To the quiet room and warm bed.

“I slept the whole night,” I say. “That never happens. No dreams. Just deep, restful sleep.”

He has a soft touch and brushes very gently.

“I’m sorry about your fall,” he says. “That must have been scary.”

When he says it, I become aware again of the spot on my head. The scab. I hadn’t thought about it until right now.