Part 7 – Last Watch
The following week felt like moving into a new life without changing my address.
There were still the same walls, the same view of the parking lot, the same coffee cup waiting in the cupboard each morning. But now there was another toothbrush in the bathroom and a pair of crutches leaning against the couch.
Jim insisted on helping, even with his leg wrapped and strict instructions to “take it easy.”
“I can at least chop vegetables,” he said as I tried to shoo him out of the kitchen. “You stand too long, your back will complain. Let me do my share.”
“You don’t even like vegetables,” I pointed out.
“That’s not the point,” he said, and we both smiled.
Lucky took his job as guardian of the household seriously.
He followed me from room to room, herding me gently away from rugs and reminding me, in his dog way, to pick up my feet. If I sat too long staring out the window, he nudged my hand with his nose until I either petted him or moved.
We developed a rhythm.
Mornings were for pills and stretching joints and arguing over who would make breakfast. Afternoons were for rest and small tasks—sorting old pictures, folding laundry, making lists. Evenings were for stories.
One night, as the late news murmured in the background, Jim mentioned a place he hadn’t talked about yet.
“There’s a hall on the other side of town,” he said. “Used to belong to a simpler time. Now it’s where a bunch of old soldiers drink bad coffee and pretend we’re just playing cards, not keeping each other alive.”
“A hall?” I asked.
“Community building,” he clarified. “Veterans’ group meets there. I haven’t been in a while. The chairs are hard and some of the conversations are harder. But there are good men there. Good women too. People who know what it’s like to come home and still feel like you’re halfway somewhere else.”
“You should go,” I said. “You shouldn’t give up the places that make you feel less alone.”
“I was thinking,” he said slowly, “maybe you should come with me.”
“Me?” I laughed. “What am I going to do in a room full of old soldiers?”
“Listen,” he said. “Tell them what it’s like on the other side of the waiting room. Remind us we’re not the only ones who feel forgotten.”
The idea of walking into a hall full of strangers made my stomach flutter.
The idea of sitting at home wondering what I was missing felt worse.
A few days later, after a night of restless thoughts about forms with my signature on them, I agreed.
The hall was exactly as he described it—brick walls, faded flag, folding chairs, a pot of coffee large enough to fill a bathtub. Men with gray hair and worn caps sat in small groups, talking in voices that dropped when certain years or places were mentioned. A few women were there too, some with service ribbons of their own, others with photographs pinned to their lapels.
When Jim walked in with his crutches and his dog, heads turned.
“Walker!” someone called. “Thought you’d fallen off the edge of the map.”
“Almost,” he replied. “Floor caught me instead. This is Evelyn. She’s the reason I’m not still there.”
They made room for me at the table without fuss, which is the kindest way to make room. Someone poured me coffee. Another slid over a chair that didn’t wobble.
They talked, and I listened.
About lost houses.
About grandkids who lived three states away.
About nights when sleep wouldn’t come because the past didn’t know what time zone it was in.
When they asked my story, I told them about the waiting room.
About the son who said, “I’ll be right back,” and the hours that followed.
Their faces did that same small-change thing Jim’s had done.
Not shock.
Recognition.
“People think we’re the only ones who get left,” one man said. “Turns out it happens in every direction.”
Later, as the afternoon light slanted through the windows, one of the women—short, sharp, with hair cut in a neat silver cap—slapped her hand on the table.
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “We sit here complaining about being alone and forgetting there are whole buildings full of people like us within ten miles. We should be checking on each other, not just trading stories about who we’ve lost.”
“That’s what we’re doing right now,” someone pointed out.
“I mean more than once a week,” she replied. “Phones. Visits. Somebody making sure the lights are on and the stove is off. We did it in uniform. We can do it in slippers.”
Jim leaned back, a thoughtful look on his face. “We used to call it the last watch,” he said. “The shift before dawn. The one where you kept each other awake so nobody fell asleep on their feet.”
“That’s what we need now,” the woman said. “A last watch for people like us.”
By the time we left that day, they had a list started.
Names of older veterans who lived alone.
Names of widows like me.
Phone numbers, addresses, little notes like “hard of hearing” or “loves cookies” scrawled in the margins.
Jim and I walked out into the late afternoon sun with a copy of the list folded in his pocket.
“We’ve just given ourselves homework,” I said.
“Better than staring at the walls waiting for them to close in,” he replied.
At home, I taped our copy of the list to the side of the refrigerator.
Every morning, after coffee, we picked a name.
Sometimes it was just a phone call.
“Hi, this is Jim and Evelyn. We’re making sure you’re still kicking.”
Sometimes it was a short visit with a loaf of bread or a container of soup.
Sometimes it was standing in a doorway reminding someone they were still part of a world that needed them.
One evening, as we were crossing another name off the “not checked yet” column, there was a knock on our door.
It was Mark.
He stood in the hallway holding a stack of papers and wearing the expression of a man who had rehearsed a speech all the way over.
“Mom,” he said. “We need to talk.”
He stepped inside, then stopped short when he saw Jim in my armchair, Lucky at his feet, our list on the fridge.
“And we need to talk about him,” he added, his voice tightening.
“That’s Jim,” I said. “He lives here now. For a while.”
Mark blinked. “A stranger is living in your apartment?”
“He’s not a stranger,” I replied. “He knew your father. He knew him at the end in a way I never did. He got me home when you didn’t.”
Color rose in Mark’s face. “That’s not fair,” he said. “You have no idea what was going on that day.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Because I was sitting in a chair alone.”
He set the papers down on the table a little harder than necessary. “This is exactly why we need to move you somewhere safe,” he said. “You’re inviting people you barely know into your home. Mom, do you have any idea how vulnerable that makes you?”
Jim shifted slightly but stayed seated, his hands flat on his knees. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said evenly. “If you want me to leave while you two talk, I will.”
“You’re not the problem,” Mark said sharply, then corrected himself. “I mean, this situation is the problem. This isn’t sustainable.”
“What isn’t sustainable?” I asked.
He gestured around the room. “You taking in another elderly person who clearly needs more help than you can provide. You barely manage on your own. What happens when you both fall? When you both get sick? What am I supposed to do then?”
“Come,” I said quietly.
He stared at me like I’d spoken another language.
“I’m trying to plan ahead,” he said. “I don’t want to get a call one day saying you were found on the floor after two days because nobody checked on you. That’s why I’ve been talking to a care facility. They have staff. Systems. People trained for this.”
“And did you plan to tell me before or after the van arrived?” I asked.
He rubbed his temples. “I knew you’d react like this,” he said. “I was going to tell you once everything was lined up so you wouldn’t have to stress about the details.”
“Those details are my life,” I said.
He fell silent. For a moment, I saw the little boy he’d been, torn between wanting his own way and wanting my approval.
Finally, he pushed the papers toward me. “They have an opening,” he said. “Two hours away isn’t that far. We’d visit. The girls would visit. Please look at it. Just look.”
I looked down at the forms, at the glossy brochure on top with pictures of smiling people playing cards under perfect lighting.
“This isn’t a prison,” he said. “It’s a nice place.”
“And what if I say no?” I asked.
He took a deep breath. “Then we’ll have to talk about the paperwork you already signed,” he said. “The one that lets me make decisions if you can’t.”
“I can,” I said.
“Can you?” he asked, not unkindly. “You almost fell last night.”
I hadn’t told him that.
Jim cleared his throat. “We all almost fall,” he said. “Question is who’s there to help you back up. That’s what we’re trying to build with this list.”
Mark glanced at the paper taped to the fridge, frowned at the columns of names.
“What is that?” he asked.
“Our last watch,” Jim said. “People checking on each other so your worst-case scenario doesn’t happen. Not just for her. For a lot of us.”
Mark shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “This is all… a lot,” he said. “We’ll talk more. Soon.”
He picked up the stack of papers, left one glossy brochure on the table, and walked out, his shoulders tight.
After the door closed, Jim blew out a breath. “That went well,” he said dryly.
“It went honestly,” I replied. “That’s more than I can say for some of our past conversations.”
We sat there for a moment, the brochure between us like a small, glossy wedge.
On the fridge, our list fluttered slightly in the air from the closing door.
There were still more names in the “not checked yet” column than the “called this week” side.
“We’ve got work to do,” I said.
“We do,” he agreed.
We didn’t know then that the real test of our new little network would come not from a form or a family argument, but from the weather report.
Part 8 – The Line in the Sand
The warning came on a Tuesday morning, right as we were arguing about whose turn it was to make coffee.
The local news anchor’s voice took on that serious tone people use when they’re trying not to cause panic but also trying to make sure you don’t ignore them.
“An extreme heatwave is expected to hit our area later this week,” she said. “Temperatures will be dangerously high, especially for older adults and people with health conditions. There is a possibility of rolling power outages as the system struggles to keep up with demand.”
Jim and I looked at each other over the kitchen counter.
Heat is not just an inconvenience when your heart and lungs are already tired. It can be a thief.
“This building’s air conditioning barely works on a good day,” I said. “If the power goes out…”
“We bake,” he finished.
The phone rang. It was the hall where the veterans met.
“Walker,” the voice on the other end said. “You seeing this forecast?”
“Yeah,” Jim replied. “We were just listening.”
“We’re putting together a plan,” the man said. “Check-ins, water runs, maybe arranging rides to the community cooling center if it opens. You in?”
“Always,” Jim said. “And so is Evelyn.”
I raised my hand in a half salute from the table.
We spent the next hour on the phone, working through our refrigerator list.
Who had working fans.
Who was on oxygen.
Who lived on the top floor where the heat rose and lingered.
As we made notes, the brochure on the table kept catching my eye.
Smiling people, climate-controlled hallways, promises of “temperature-controlled comfort.”
“Say it,” Jim said without looking up from the list.
“Say what?”
“Whatever your face is thinking when you look at that paper.”
I sighed. “If I were in a place like that, heat wouldn’t be our problem,” I said.
He nodded. “Maybe. Maybe they have their own issues when systems go down. Just because a building is shiny doesn’t mean it’s safe.”
“You’re not helping my decision,” I said.
“That’s because it’s not my decision,” he replied. “Line in the sand time, Evelyn. You’ve got your son on one side saying ‘let me handle it’ and your whole life on the other. Nobody can stand in that line for you.”
Before I could answer, there was another knock on the door.
This time it was Ms. Doyle from the agency.
“I wanted to follow up before the weather hits,” she said, stepping inside when I waved her in. “We get a lot of calls during heatwaves. Figured I’d stop at the places I was already worried about.”
She glanced at Jim on the couch, at the crutches, at the dog, at the list on the fridge. Her eyes took everything in without judgment.
“You’ve been busy,” she said.
“We’re not very good at sitting still,” Jim replied.
She smiled, then turned to me. “I spoke with your son,” she said. “We talked about what happened at the hospital and about the forms you signed. He expressed concern about you living alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I said.
“I told him that,” she replied. “He wasn’t thrilled about the idea of a housemate, especially one with his own health concerns. But he did seem less panicked knowing someone else was here.”
“Panicked is his version of concerned,” I said.
She hesitated. “He also mentioned the care facility,” she added. “I reminded him that, as long as you are able to make your own decisions and understand the consequences, your wishes should guide any plan. He didn’t love that either, but he heard it.”
“Do those forms mean he can move me without my consent?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I can’t give legal advice,” she said carefully. “What I can say is that no one can simply take you somewhere against your will without a serious process. You have more power than it feels like you do. Use it.”
After she left, the air in the apartment felt thick, even with the fan going.
“Use it,” I repeated.
Jim tapped the brochure with one finger. “So,” he said, “where do you want to be when the power goes out?”
“I want to be where someone will notice if I stop answering the door,” I said. “Where someone will check on the woman at the end of the hall and the man with the old dog.”
“That’s here,” he said simply.
I picked up the brochure, looked at the glossy pictures one more time, then slid it into a drawer.
“Then this is my line in the sand,” I said. “I’m staying. At least for now. And if Mark doesn’t like it, he can sit in this hot kitchen and feel what it’s like to make soup without air conditioning before he makes decisions for me.”
Jim grinned. “Now there’s a plan.”
The heatwave rolled in like a living thing.
The air grew heavy. The sun felt closer.
The first day, the power held. We made extra ice, filled pitchers with water, kept the curtains closed against the worst of the light.
The second day, around midafternoon, the lights flickered and went out.
The fan clicked to a stop. The refrigerator hummed once and then fell silent.
We sat there for a moment, listening to the sudden quiet.
“Well,” Jim said, “here we go.”
We propped the door open to let air move in the hallway.
Neighbors stuck their heads out, blinking like groundhogs.
“You okay, Mrs. Carter?” someone called.
“We’re checking on everyone,” I answered. “We’ve got a list. If you need water or a fan you can wave by hand, come by.”
We took turns sitting near the door, handing out bottled water, making sure nobody looked too pale or too flushed.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, Mark called.
“Mom, the news says your area lost power,” he said, panic tightening his words. “Are you okay? Do you want me to come get you and bring you to our house?”
For a moment, I almost said yes.
Air conditioning. A ride. Familiar voices.
Then I looked at Jim, at Lucky, at the neighbors fanning themselves in doorways up and down the hall.
“I’m okay,” I said. “We’re checking on people here. They’d notice if I left. Who would notice them?”
“You’re not responsible for the whole building,” he said.
“I’m responsible for the kind of person I am in it,” I replied.
He was quiet.
“I can come tomorrow,” he said finally. “Early. We can talk more.”
“We can talk,” I agreed. “But I’m not packing anything until we’re both sure who you’re trying to protect.”
After we hung up, the heat pressed down harder.
By late afternoon, my head felt light.
I stood up too quickly to get another bottle of water from the counter. The edges of my vision darkened.
“Evelyn?” Jim’s voice sounded distant.
I reached for the back of a chair and missed.
The floor rushed up, faster than it had in my near-miss the other night.
The last thing I saw before everything went black was Lucky lunging forward, as if he thought he could catch me.
