“That sounds about right, Marisol,” he said slowly.

After that, he let me visit often. I brought him things — mystery novels, clean socks, peppermint tea, freshly baked scones. Once, I brought him a chocolate muffin from a bakery near the hospital.

He didn’t eat it, but held it in his lap the entire visit, like it mattered more than I realized.

When he was discharged three weeks later, he returned to the house — or what was left of it. He stayed on the ground floor, just one room that still had heat, electricity, and a narrow cot near the window.

I offered to help him settle in.

He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no either.