At seventy-six, I adopted an ageing Border Collie from a rescue because the house had become far too quiet after my husband Kertati passing.

Her voice was calm, but every word closed another door.

I asked the director one question.

“Does Walter still mention a garden?”

A nurse answered from somewhere across the room.

“Every morning,” she said.

“He asks whether the last bed has been covered.”

Walter’s daughter stopped speaking.

Behind me, someone dropped a metal food bowl, and Rusty lifted his head at the noise before settling against my leg again.

The daughter finally asked me to hold the phone near him.

I said Walter’s name.

Rusty’s ears rose.

From the other end came a thin voice saying only, “Rusty?”

The dog’s tail struck the floor so hard that the volunteer covered her mouth.

His daughter took one breath and changed her answer.

“Bring him Saturday.”

At 4:18, I signed the visitor agreement, booked the courtyard, and wrote Rusty’s name beside mine.