The scene is so like that of the orange juice fiasco that Rose’s mental gears grind to a halt. Is this now or is this then? A flashback? Creaking, the gears again start to turn. Of course Longwood is searching for her. Of course they enlisted the police to bring her back. Of course they know where she lives. Of course. That’s their job. Rose is a fool not to have thought of this. She toys with the idea of turning herself in, throwing her sanity on the mercy of the medical court. Not yet, she decides. Once in the machine, she will be helpless. She needs time to figure things out.

“Quite a welcoming committee,” says Andre.

The driver sees them, too. Rose relaxes. Not a flashback, just history repeating itself. The tall woman is Nancy, Harley’s ex. The other woman—of medium height, stocky but not fat, maybe Hispanic—is Wanda, the manager of the Memory Care Unit. Today she wears a teal power suit and matching heels. Longwood is a full-service facility.

“Stop here!” Rose demands.

Andre stops the SUV.

“You want to avoid the cops?” He sounds as if that is the most rational choice a person can make.

“Please,” Rose whispers.

“I could just drive by, you know, take you somewhere else,” Andre offers.

Rose considers it, then shakes her head. “We’ve stopped. If we go again it might…” She runs out of words.

“Look hinky,” Andre finishes for her. “When you get out, wave a big goodbye to me. Don’t stand around like you’re lost. Look like you know where you’re going, and have got a right to be there,” he advises.

“Thank you,” Rose says. “I can’t tip you. I don’t have any money.”

“Not a problem. You have a good day,” Andre says.

Rose tugs the ball cap down more firmly and climbs out of the passenger door. Smiling, she waves a cheery farewell to Andre, then walks purposefully toward the nearest house, an enormous newly built home with a wide half circle of concrete drive. Crossing it, Rose feels as conspicuous as a cockroach on a wedding cake.

Three shallow steps lead up to a landing the size of a handball court. There is a green-painted door with a brass knocker in the shape of a hand. Hoping nobody is home, Rose pretends to be digging her house key out of her pants pocket. She peeks down the drive of 87 Applegarth. No one is looking her way.

Careful not to make a sound, she scuttles off the front stoop, around the corner, and out of sight. Butterfly bushes, rich with purple plumes, edge the house. Rose forces herself deep into their embrace, tucks her knees under her chin, and tips her head down so the ball cap covers her face.