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why would they be willing to take on Quinto? Mackie just gave me this look. If your Christmas tree fell over, she said, and ornaments were scattered through the house, wouldn’t you suspect your cat? The company gives Bryce Wogan a free hand, because he’s a great foreman but an ogre for everyone to work with—except for Danny Rivera. So if Danny said, Bryce, I’m taking another kid on, Bryce would roll his eyes, and let him do it. So, that’s how she got Quinto into the program. Apparently, Danny knew Quinto’s brother from years back, and he was happy to get Quinto.
    Poor Quinto and poor Sorrel. I hate seeing them so stressed out. It’s hard, not being able to just fix everyone’s problems . . .
     
    At last, the flood of words slowed to a trickle. She scanned the letter, and copied and pasted excerpts into a new message. A few whimsical comments and dozen more exclamation points wove the excerpts together into a light-hearted general newsletter. It was a third the length of the original, and certified “worry-free.” She sent it to Julianne and Geoff’s joint address. A similar concoction went to Keith.
    She added a postscript to Shelley’s letter.
     
    Just wanted to tell you, I know you sicced Geoff and Keith on me last May. I’d probably have done the same to you. So, quit pussyfooting around about it, sister mine.
    Love you, Jeanie
     
    She mouse-clicked the computer clock to check the time. Rita jumped in her lap. Rita was a ball of long fur wrapped around a sweet nature and a scatterbrained head. Rita could get lost in her own house. Corrigan plopped at her feet, hoping for a walk. The clock refused to change. She’d promised herself and Shelley that she’d take some personal time this morning. Well, she had, hadn’t she? She picked up the phone.
    “Nadezda? Jeanie, here. Is he up yet? Oh, he is. Thank God, I’m going nuts here. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
    ~*~
    “Lift your foot, Edward. Your foot, for the curb.” Jeanie reached down and patted the back of his knee. “Lift your foot. That’s it, great, here we go.”
    Parkinson’s was like that, as Michael J. Fox could attest. So could Billy Graham, Janet Reno, and countless people like Edward McCoy.
    “Here we are, Edward. Look, the ducks are waiting for you.”
    “That they are,” he said cheerfully. With the ease of long practice, Jeanie backed Edward to the bench. Edward half-sat and half-fell onto the bench, adjusting himself with a series of hitching moves. Five years before, Edward retired from Starfire Engineering. His joints stiffened, as though encased in layers of bubble wrap and packing tape. His world contracted. He couldn’t drive, work in his shop, manage a keyboard or mouse. She had remained afloat on his courage. They found solutions together: the electric toothbrush, clothes that fastened with Velcro, and handrails in the bathroom. Fifteen months ago, her retirement had come, to their unspoken relief.
    The ducks clustered at the edge of the bridge, swimming in tight, eager circles. Edward fumbled a piece of the bread between his fingers. He drew back his arm in a series of jerks and threw the bread. It landed on the deck. Jeanie nudged it over the side with her foot. The ducks scrambled over each other.
    “She’s here again ,” said Edward, frowning.
    A young woman with long unkempt brown hair herded two toddlers towards the slides and stood close by, her baby on her hip. Her eyes roamed the playground, catching every movement of squirrel, bike, or skateboard.
    “It’s nice to see the little ones play,” Jeanie said.
    “She’s here again,” he emphasized. “Notice how she watches everyone?”
    “Now, Edward, she’s just being careful.” The young woman radiated fear. If they spoke to her, she scurried away with her children. Covertly, Jeanie had begun keeping watch for strangers on the young woman’s behalf. “She belongs here. She’s a neighbor.”
    “A neighbor? What’s her name?”
    Jeanie’s