Rose is Ms. Dennis. This is home. On one side of a large room is a couch. A nurses’ desk is on the other. Three brown Barcaloungers line the far wall. An old man and two old women in nightgowns and robes crumple like deflated dolls on the furniture.

“Ms. Dennis is officially out of the woods,” Wanda says cheerfully.

“You had quite an adventure,” says a woman behind the desk.

“Stomach flu is nobody’s idea of fun. Her meds got purged—along with everything else,” says Wanda. They laugh. Rose does not.

“She’s sedated now, but it will wear off. Be sure she gets her meds at dinner. Give her her lunch meds as well. We need to restore her levels as soon as we can.”

That’s not what the doctor said. Rose can remember. He said slowly restore her levels.

“Of course,” says the nurse. She comes from behind the desk. Rose is handed off.

Package delivered, Rose thinks. The Rose Dennis package has been delivered “home.”

“Thanks, Wanda,” the nurse says.

Wanda presses a plastic card against a black plastic square beside the door. It slides open. She leaves, heels clicking on the vinyl flooring.

“Someone will sure be glad to see you,” says the woman who now holds Rose’s elbow. “Let’s get you settled with your friend, then get some dinner in you.” The nurse prattles as she guides Rose around the chest-high desk and through a wide arch into another room. “You are skinny as a scarecrow. We’ll get some meat back on those bones.”

The second room is dominated by a long scarred wooden table. At the far end, an ancient man in pajamas and a white cotton robe like the one Rose wears puts a puzzle together.

“That’s Mr. Buschbaum,” the nurse says. “Mr. B, Rose is back on her feet.”

Mr. B does not look up or respond.

The nurse pulls out a chair and seats Rose in it, patting her into place as if she’s made of Play-Doh. In the center of the table are a mug of colored markers, several pairs of children’s snub-nose scissors, and sheets of paper with the outline of a sailboat. One is colored green with a blue sail.

The nurse whisks out.

Rose wonders if she is supposed to draw a picture.

“She’s right in here, Chuck. I know you’ve been worried.” The nurse returns, leading a man by the elbow. “This is your friend Chuck Boster,” the nurse says as she maneuvers the man into a chair beside Rose. “See, Chuck, Rose is well and back among the living.”

Chuck is six feet tall, Roses guesses, and thin. Beneath the loose skin is a defined musculature. His hair is thick, with lots of salt, and cut short. He would be handsome if lax muscles weren’t dragging down his cheeks and his eyelids. He isn’t much older than Rose is.