“Hold your arms up, please.”

I do, and she washes there. I don’t look back. It’s awkward and embarrassing. I’ve never been washed before, at least not as an adult. I don’t know Shelley yet, not really. I wish I couldn’t see her bare feet. For some reason that makes it worse. They’re almost touching mine. We aren’t talking. The water is hot and steams around us.

Without saying anything, without pausing her movements, Shelley starts humming. Subtly at first. I barely hear her over the running water. Then louder. I know the tune. I recognize it. It’s the same one I was humming earlier, at the meeting.

It’s an old Annette Hanshaw song. It’s from before her time.

She continues humming as she washes the rest of the soap off my body. For the first time since I’ve arrived, I wish I was alone.

She turns off the water and hands me a fluffy towel.

“Would you like help drying off?”

“No,” I say.

“I’ll get your nightie.”

“Is it time for bed already?”

From where I’m standing in my bathroom, I can see through the open door to the window. I step closer, putting a hand on the doorframe. It’s dark outside. I can hear Shelley opening my dresser drawer. It must be later than I think.

Once I get my nightie on, again with her help, Shelley tucks me into bed.

“I didn’t realize it was so late,” I say. “I guess that nap was a long one. Did we already have dinner?”

“I’m pleased you’re settling in. And sleeping so well,” she says. “That’s important.”

She has removed the white shower robe but is still wearing those gloves. The bed, with the duvet up under my chin, is just as warm and comfortable as I recall from last night. I am sunken and protected. I close my eyes and can feel myself drifting off immediately.

“Good night, my dear,” I hear. “Sleep well.”

I open my eyes. Sit up. It’s dark. It’s late. Where am I?

I remember. My room at Six Cedars. I don’t have a watch. I didn’t bring my bedside clock. It must be the middle of the night. There’s no sound. No light shining in from the hallway. Everyone is asleep.

But I feel awake. I feel alert.

I get up. To paint. I want to paint. I need to paint.

Without putting on my cardigan or socks or slippers, I go straight to my desk. That’s where my new brushes are. I pick up one of the brushes. I touch the soft tip with my finger. I sniff it.

I turn on the desk lamp, and for the first time in years, I start work on a new canvas.

I don’t know how long I work like that, barefoot, focused, but at some point I become exhausted and fall back into bed.

A noise. It’s a voice. Soft. Muffled. Someone’s speaking to me.

“Penny… Penny?”

I open my eyes. It’s Jack, standing over my bed. He’s holding fresh folded towels. Again.