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long as Sam could remember, but age and fatigue were setting in, his shoulders more rounded, his walk slower, his feet closer to the floor. As though any moment now he would just begin to shuffle his way out of this world. Would that change if her mother finally woke up and answered?
    That was the real reason Sam was here tonight, late, after an exhausting day. Actually, “exhausting” did not do it justice. The weariness filled her bones, and she pulled out a kitchen chair and sat heavily.
    “She doesn’t hear us, Dad. She didn’t hear your question, and she didn’t hear my story about my day. I might as well have told her that I ate my cereal with Mountain Dew this morning.”
    “You don’t know that, Sam. No one has ever proven she doesn’t hear you.”
    She sighed and decided to ignore the obvious, just like he had been doing for years. “Do you want me to make you some dinner?”
    “Oh no, we just ate. Like I said, we’re not very hungry tonight.”
    Sam knew that “just ate” probably referred to some scrambled eggs that morning. Her father’s thin frame attested to the fact that he was no longer capable of caring for her mother, let alone himself—although he had taken on thinking and speaking for her long ago. But he wouldn’t give in. He wouldn’t let go, perhaps for the same reasons she no longer existed. She was his link to the past. All they had left were the memories—and each other.
    He wouldn’t even leave her, except for brief periods once a week, when the sisters from the ward would come “visit” with Ruthie while Sam’s father went to the Golden Age Senior Center. There he took classes on fly tying, computers, or dancing—all things he would never do or use.
    “Would you like some chamomile tea, Sam?” He puttered around the kitchen, his old short-sleeved work shirt too big for his constantly shrinking frame. Sam watched as he poured water into two mugs, then heated them in the microwave. His hands were calm and steady and showed no signs of the palsy affecting many others of his generation. His full head of silver hair also made him look younger than he was, but his face was a dead giveaway. Lines and wrinkles and heaviness to the jowls spoke of a long and rough life. The only place he didn’t have excess wrinkles was around his lips, because he rarely smiled. And why would he?
    Sam tried to remember a time when her father had been happy, smiling and laughing, and was surprised to discover she had no such memory. She thought of him as gentle but definitely dour.
    When the microwave beeped, he pulled the mugs out by the handles and set them on the counter. He opened a cupboard and peered inside but didn’t appear to find what he was looking for. “I’ve been making chamomile tea for your mother every night. It calms her. Helps her get a good night’s sleep, doesn’t it, Ruthie? And there’s no caffeine in it, you know. It’s herb tea. Not against the Word of Wisdom. Now I know I just bought some when I went to the store two days ago. What happened to it?”
    The LDS Church had a strict code against “hot drinks,” including tea and coffee. Over the years, that had been interpreted to mean drinks containing caffeine. It certainly never covered hot chocolate, which was served at any Mormon function in the winter. Sam had long ago learned the interpretation depended on the person interpreting. For her father, that was always the prophets, and her father would never do anything that went against the teachings of the Mormon prophets. Since they had decided the evil in hot drinks was caffeine, or so he believed, he had been steadfast in his rule against it. Herbal tea was something totally different.
    Sam rose and went to the cupboards, rummaging through them until she found the tea. “Let me do it, Dad. You sit with Mom. Tell me about your day.”
    Her father hesitated for a moment, as though to fight against her absconding with his self-appointed role, and then he gave in and