On impulse, she swayed her hips slightly. Suppressed a laugh. Seventy-odd years old, flirting in a care home.
All day, she tried placing him. Her memory wasn’t what it used to be—another reason for Willowbrook. She’d leave the hob on, forget why she’d gone to the shops. Once, the neighbours nearly called emergency services.
That afternoon, she found him in the lounge, staring into space as before. She sat at the far end of the sofa—close, but not too close.
“Can’t get used to this place,” she mused aloud. “Too quiet. Like the countryside.”
A pause. Then: “We practically *are* in the countryside.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A year.”
“A *year*? I’ve only been here three weeks. Still half-tempted to go home.”
“You’ll adjust. People adapt to anything. Even prison. This is practically a holiday camp. Did your kids dump you here, or was it your idea?”
