Logan parked in the lot behind the building, then—leaning into the howling wind—went through the front entrance and made a series of inquiries. “That’s him over there,” a second-floor nurse said five minutes later. “By the window.” “Thanks,” Logan replied. “How did you say you’re related again?” “Distantly,” Logan said. “It’s complicated.” “Well, however you’re related, it’s nice of you to stop by, especially with this storm approaching. Both his children are dead, and his grandchildren never visit. Shame, really—mentally, at least, he’s still sharp.” “Thank you again.” The nurse nodded toward the box of chocolates in Logan’s hand. “He can’t have those, I’m afraid.” “I’ll leave them at the nurse’s station on the way out.” He walked through the large community room, past superannuated men and women watching television, playing cards, doing jigsaw puzzles, mumbling to themselves, or in some cases just sitting with vacant expressions on their faces.
