It’s 5:30, and I’m about to lock the brakes on Mrs. Thompson’s wheelchair when Sondra walks into the building to start her evening shift.

Sondra’s been a nursing aide here for eighteen years, an incredibly long time for a career that’s often nothing but a stepping-stone on the path to becoming an RN. She says she’s done it for so long because she truly believes it’s the only thing she could ever be really good at it. Kind without being condescending, she’s careful with both the patients’ bodies and their hearts.

Sondra’s taught me so much during the past six years. She knows a lot about this job. And about the world. But, there are definitely some things she doesn’t know. Things you can’t learn from books or classes, or even from on-the-job experience. I’m talking about the things that come from your soul. The things that are a part of who you are.

Sondra once told me I’m too compassionate for this job. When she found me crying in the back stairwell after my first patient died, she said I shouldn’t become so connected to them. She suggested I keep an emotional distance between myself and the residents because I already know how the relationship is going to end. She said it makes it easier when they go, and it’ll keep my sanity intact. “It’s not like they’re ever going to switch into reverse,” she said. “They won’t get better. They’ll just keep getting worse until it’s over. That’s why they’re here.” Sondra’s far from a heartless person, but in her mind, connecting strongly with patients makes everything harder.

She has no idea how right she is.

I’ve lost six of them so far, including Miriam Hansen, and there’s no doubt that the more you care for them, the harder their death becomes.

Pneumonia, diabetes, stroke, Parkinson’s, heart disease, renal failure, emphysema, influenza. It. All. Sucks. But, to me, cancer is especially bitter and havoc-wreaking. Not only because it’s a mean, unforgiving disease, but also because it took my father away from me and I will never forgive it.

But…cancer also gave me a gift. It taught me how to do things I never thought I’d be capable of. It made me realize how much of a difference love and compassion can make at the end of someone’s life.

My father’s cancer helped me figure out who I am.

In a strange way, I think Alzheimer’s patients like Ms. Sinclair are the lucky ones. When someone has Alzheimer’s, it seems to be far harder for the people who love them than it is for the patient themselves. Don’t get me wrong, it’s extremely difficult for everyone at the beginning. But by the end of it, the patient’s ignorance of their own condition also happens to be its one saving grace. Their lack of awareness is what prevents them from truly suffering.

But, to be aware. To be shockingly aware that you are dying…there is no grace in that.

I watched my father as he listened to the doctors, understanding their every word, and it tore my heart out. Knowing you’re dying well before you’re ready to go—and then learning there’s nothing you can do to stop it—is the worst kind of torment there could ever be. And then, when things get really bad, to not be able to end your own suffering is the biggest, most ironic kick-in-the-gut humanity could ever conceive. This is the point at which compassion should play its greatest and most important role, and yet, because of politics and religion and epic mounds of assorted bullshit, it isn’t even allowed in the room.

After Mrs. Thompson’s brakes are locked, I say goodbye to her and follow Sondra back to the office. I use my last half hour to fill out the shift change report so I can get out of here in time to grab something to eat before heading over to Bartholomew’s to set up. When my paperwork’s been handed over to the Nursing Director, I grab my bag and head down the hallway toward the lobby. I’m walking past the reception desk when I hear a voice behind me.

“Hey, K’acy. Wait up.” The moment the words enter my ear, a tiny little jitter starts bouncing around in my stomach. I recognize the rush of endorphins immediately. I’m not surprised by them, just intrigued. Because I haven’t felt their particular brand of insanity in a very long time. And I certainly have never felt them for anyone like Adam Sinclair. Clean, professionally educated, sincere, unscarred, emotionally connected…and white.

I halt my feet and turn around to see him jogging down the hallway toward me. He comes to a stop a few feet in front of me, hands on his hips and wearing a hearty lumberjack smile, like he has good news to share. He’s got at least four or five inches on top of my five-eight, and from this angle I can’t help but compare him to a hipster version of the Brawny paper towel man, minus the mustache and the flannel shirt. His teeth are perfectly straight, and he’s rocking the controlled bed-head like a high school boy on prom night. “I’m glad I caught you before you left,” he adds.

I swallow hard to keep the little jitter from churning into something more.

“Oh? Why’s that?” I pause briefly, suddenly remembering the last time I saw him was at nine o’clock this morning. “Wait…have you been here all day?”

“Yep. I was just hanging out with Gram. You know, to try to fit into her routine. Mostly I just sat there while she watched TV. But we did play cards. And she totally loved it when those dogs came.” She always loves it when the dogs come. The sudden mental picture of Adam and Ms. Sinclair petting a labradoodle together strikes a major aww chord in my heart. It also calms the jitter down a notch. “Anyway, I realized I never had the chance to thank you for your advice earlier. So…thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The sound of my own voice is followed by a good ten seconds of silence. No words. No movement. And, thankfully, no bass riff. Only a chasm of silence, somehow strangely devoid of discomfort or embarrassment. Even the jitter is quiet.

“I’m on my way out now, too,” he says eventually, hands dropping from his hips and into his pockets. “Do you wanna go get a cup of coffee or something?”

A cup of coffee. With Adam Sinclair.

The gig at Bartholomew’s clicks into my head. And then it clicks right back out again. “Sure. I’m up for a cup of coffee.”

“Great.” The enthusiasm in his voice shocks the jitter to life again.

“I can’t stay too long, though. I have plans later.” I say it in an attempt to settle the knot in my stomach, but it comes out sounding kind of assumptive. And bitchy.

“Oh. Well if you have plans, maybe I should just take a rain check.” His face falls a little, along with the volume of his voice. I actually think he’s disappointed. I know just what to say to make it better.

“Life’s too short for rain checks.”

* * *

Within ten minutes of entering Wicked Mocha, I learn three things about Adam Sinclair. First, he takes his coffee with a little cream. Second, he uses one of those wallets with a loud Velcro closure. And third, he sits with his elbows on the table, something that would automatically send him right to the top of my mother’s discard pile.

When she was still around, the only time Charlie and I were ever allowed to have our elbows on the table was when we were saying grace. To Louise McGee, a child with his or her elbows on the table was nothing but a heathen, soiled by the poor manners of bad parenting and the absence of Jesus. After she left us, Charlie and I always sat in the kitchen with our elbows on the table. We chewed with our mouths open. We ate with our fingers. We wiped our faces on our shirtsleeves. And the most hedonistic of all: we stopped saying grace. It was a nine- and eleven-year-old’s version of revenge, and Daddy never said a word.

Strange as it is, the placement of Adam’s elbows makes me like him even more.

“So, how long have you worked at Pine Manor?”

“About six years.”

“Do you like it there?”

I nod and take a sip of my coffee, but I don’t say anything.

“Oh man. I’m sorry. You probably don’t want to talk about work now that you’re out of there, huh?”

“It doesn’t bother me.” I shrug. “I’m lucky. I really love what I do. It’s just that sometimes I don’t like to talk about it because, frankly, most people think it’s weird. I get a lot of Wow, I could never do that. You must be a really patient person, and stuff like that. People like to tell me I’m some kind of saint to my face, but I’m sure they’re squirming beneath the surface because they’re thinking about me having to change diapers and collect urine samples. A whole host of less-than-appealing duties probably pops into their heads. So, I’ve learned to mostly keep quiet about it. How about you? Do you like your job?”

“I don’t have one. Not yet, anyway.” His reply slides him down closer to the bottom of Louise McGee’s imaginary discard pile. All he needs to say now is that he hates the Bible or Easter or something. A statement like that would shoot my mother straight in the heart, if she still had one. It also might make me want to run off to Vegas with him.

“Haven’t found the right one yet, huh?”

“I haven’t even been looking. I moved back here to be with Gram, and if I’m working, I can’t do that.” Apparently, food and shelter—and health insurance—are a lower priority for him than they are for the rest of us.

“As noble a reason for unemployment as I’ve ever heard.”

“There’s nothing noble about it, really. It’s completely selfish. My father kept me from her for seventeen years, and now that he can’t hold anything over my head anymore, I need to make it up to her. I need to show her it was his choice to keep us apart, not mine. And I’m sorry I let him make that decision for me. I should’ve fought back a long time ago. But I didn’t, and I feel pretty damn guilty about it. I haven’t seen her since I was eight, and now…now, she thinks I’m somebody else. Somebody I don’t even know. Every time she called me Bradley today, I gently reminded her that I’m Adam, just like you said I should. Whoever the hell this Bradley is, he must’ve made quite an impression.” He brushes his hand against the side of his head and leans back in his chair. “Even though I haven’t seen her in years, I feel like she should still know me, you know? She was my best friend, and now I’m afraid it’s too late. How do I tell her I’m sorry when she doesn’t even know who I am?”

I don’t hesitate a single second before offering an answer.

“Time and love.” The words come out of my mouth quick but soft. He tilts his head, his eyes staring at mine, diving into me with more uncertainty than understanding.

He doesn’t realize the answer is always the same. No matter what the question is.

“I’m just afraid there won’t be enough of the former.”

“There’s always enough. Of both of them, as a matter of fact. That is…if you want there to be.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Because in this case, it’s the quality—not the quantity—that makes it enough.”

He silently takes another sip of his coffee, as if he’s thinking hard about my words. "You’re a bundle of quality yourself, K’acy McGee. You know that?”

Embarrassment whips through me. It takes me a couple of seconds to come up with something to say to him that won’t upset the delicate, awkward balance now between us. I finish my coffee and settle on my words before opening my mouth.

“Well then…I guess if I want to leave on a high note, right now would be a great time for me to get out of here.” I stand up and toss my bag over my shoulder, holding my empty paper cup. I can barely look at his face because I’m afraid he may see that the nervous little jitter has now morphed into full-blown self-consciousness.

“But sometimes leaving on a low note is a lot more interesting.” And with that, the balance is knocked totally off its fulcrum. One massive point in his favor. “Are you sure you have to go?”

“I have to go. I definitely have to go.”

He raises his brow at me and smirks. “Where?”

“I have a date.”

The grin leaves his face in an instant. At least I’ve managed to stabilize the balance again.

“Oh. Well, have fun then. And be safe,” he says, dropping his gaze to his hands.

I’m a jerk.

“Well, I guess it’s not a date really. More like an appointment. Work, even. My band has a gig tonight, and I’ve gotta help set up the house or I’m gonna catch hell.”

“Your band?” He leans back in his chair again and crosses his arms over his chest. The smirk is back.

“Yep.”

“Huh.” His face flushes with a dusting of pink.

The balance seems to have officially shifted in my favor. By at least fifty points. I didn’t think it would catch him so off guard. Score.

“Have a good night.” I turn away from him and start walking toward the door.

The feet of Adam’s chair scrape against the floor, and the next thing I know, he’s slipping past me and opening the door. He uses his left arm to hold it open until I pass.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks as I scoot by him as quickly as I can. “I mean…will Gram and I see you tomorrow? Do you work on Saturdays?” More points for me. Poor guy.

I stop in front of the café window and turn back to look at him. He’s a few paces away, still holding the door open like he’s been immobilized by the sheer weight of the now incredibly uneven balance. I should take pity on him and lighten the load. But before I can say anything, he starts talking again.

“Unless you wanna tell me where you’re playing tonight. Then I won’t have to wait until tomorrow.”

My body is instantly flooded with more jitter-inducing endorphins than I thought one human being could ever produce. “Soul to Squeeze” fires through my synapses, completely blasting the balance to smithereens. Inside my head, five million points—all with Adam Sinclair’s name on them—fall from the sky. Tiny pieces of emotional confetti in celebration of his decisive victory.

I turn my back on him and start walking down the sidewalk, outrageously aware that he’s watching my every step. And waiting for a reply. When I’m ten paces out, I turn and start to walk backward. He’s still holding the door open.

“Bartholomew’s. On Pinkerton Street.”

I don’t wait for a reply. I just turn back around and keep walking toward the bus stop, his victory confetti quickly clearing in the wake of my words. When I hit the end of the block and start to cross the street, the sound of “Soul to Squeeze” still pumping through my veins quiets at the odd sight in front of me. There’s a black car parked against the curb, its windows shaded darker than any I’ve ever seen before, so much that I can’t even see if it’s occupied. It feels misplaced; like it belongs in a movie instead of on a tree-lined city street. I pass behind the car’s rear bumper, step up onto the sidewalk, and start running to catch the bus.