“That’s not right, Sir.”

“Right doesn’t pay your mother’s bills.”

The sentence struck exactly where he had aimed it.

“How did you know about my mother?”

“I asked around. You’re a known quantity, Jeremy. Decent guy. Roughly the right age. Looks the part.”

I should have refused. I nearly did.

“Just weekends?” I asked instead.

“Just weekends. Bring her flowers if you want. Sit there for an hour. Smile. Leave.”

My hand moved before my conscience could stop it. I drew the cash toward myself and felt its weight settle into my palm like a small, heavy rock.

“When do I start?”

He almost smiled. For one second, he seemed like a man relieved to place his burden onto someone else’s shoulders.

“Saturday. And Jeremy. Don’t get attached.”

I nodded, already aware that I had agreed to become somebody I was not.

The corridor of the nursing home smelled like disinfectant and faded roses. My hands were clammy as I repeated the name Tim had drilled into me on the phone the previous night.

Room 214. I knocked once, opened the door, and walked in.

Rosie was sitting beside the window with a thin blanket folded over her knees. She lifted her head slowly, blinking against the afternoon brightness.

“Mama,” I said, the word feeling unfamiliar on my tongue. “It’s me. Tim.”

For a long while, she only searched my face. Then her entire expression softened, and she lifted a shaking hand toward me.