Two mornings later, I heard a dull thump outside.
Barbara was on one knee beside the curb. One hand was spread against the pavement.
The other still gripped the top of a trash bag.
Anna was already moving toward the door.
We ran across the street.
Up close, her skin had a gray cast beneath her makeup.
Her scarf had slipped, revealing patches of hair loss.
She looked smaller than the bag beside her.
“Do not stand yet,” Anna said, kneeling.
“The truck will be here soon,” Barbara whispered.
“No. Please. It is the last pickup before Saturday.”
Anna and I helped her into the house.
Her kitchen was bright and spotless, but pill bottles stood beside the sink.
