The words landed like stones in still water. I pulled a chair closer, sat down carefully, and took her hand. It felt like paper, dry and delicate. “When did he leave, Helen?”

“Tuesday. I think Tuesday.” Her eyes searched mine. “He said just two days, a quick trip. Had to get away for a bit. He’d earned it, he said.”

Tuesday. I’d gone into surgery Wednesday morning. Today was Friday. The math assembled itself in my head with architectural precision.

“Did he leave you water?”

“He brought the pitcher, filled it. I remember that.” She swallowed with visible effort. “I couldn’t… the wheelchair’s in the corner. I couldn’t reach.”