“Where’s Jack?” I ask.

She stops, puts the duster down.

“Penny, please. You’re not listening to me.”

“What are you trying to do to us?” I ask. “You can’t force us to live this way. You can’t!”

“Do you know what catabolic means, Penny?”

“No,” I say.

“It means destructive metabolism. When a delicate ecosystem—like the one here at Six Cedars, where we all live together—is created, each life helps sustain the life of another. We all benefit from it. We give each other life. That’s how we live here.”

She steps closer.

“So each life is then dependent on the other. We need each other, Penny. We all have to fit in.”

I look down at my hands; it’s impossible how wrinkled and veiny they’ve become, almost useless. It’s what everyone wants: to feel younger and to have more time.

“When a violin string is plucked, another string might vibrate in sympathy even though it’s not touched,” she says. “Human beings are the same. The more you can let go of the past, the more you can relax, the better off you’ll be here. You don’t have to worry about going back. You’ll always be here with us.”

There’s a full glass of water on my bedside table, and I consider taking a sip to quench my heavy thirst. But instead, feeling too weary, I lie down on my side.

“Penny, you lived with him for so many years.”

“Pardon me?”

Shelley turns the framed photo on the dresser back around to face me. Him. The man I spent so much time with. The man who could only see the world in one way, from one perspective. The man who needed so desperately to fit in.

“This was the spot you picked to come to, and he made sure you’d be taken care of for as long as possible. You should be grateful for all the extra time you’re getting, Penny. Time he didn’t get.”

I close my eyes and pull my pillow to my chest. I shut my eyes. I don’t want to see her anymore. I can still hear her moving around, and then nothing for a bit, until she speaks.

“People give up on themselves much too easily. There’s no reason we can’t keep striving to do more.”

As she leaves, she switches off the light with a click. Silence.

“No,” I say to the empty room. “You’re wrong. We just can’t accept letting go.”

Pitch darkness. It’s so dark I can’t see the wall or dresser from the bed. It’s so dark it’s hard to see my hand as I hold it in front of my face. It must be the middle of the night, yet I’m wide awake.

I reach for the glass of water on the bedside table, but the glass is empty. There are dried paint flecks on my hand. When was I painting? I swing my legs out of bed, slipping my feet into my slippers. They must have stretched, as they don’t feel as snug.