I looked. The wheelchair sat against the far wall, impossibly distant from the bed. Chester knew his mother couldn’t walk unassisted. He’d positioned it there anyway.

“I’m calling for help,” I said, pulling out my phone.

“Don’t be angry with the boy.”

I didn’t answer that. The dispatcher picked up on the second ring, and I gave our address in the calm voice I’d perfected over forty years of dealing with contractors and clients. My hands stayed steady. The shaking would come later.

The paramedics arrived in fourteen minutes. I opened the door for two women who moved with practiced efficiency, asking questions while they worked. “How long has she been without fluids? Does she have any medical conditions? Where’s her caregiver?”

“My son,” I said, watching them check Helen’s vitals. “He was supposed to be here.”