Dotage | 2024-2026 |

“I… know you,” he whispered, the words scraping out of a dry throat.

“There you are,” she said.

She took his hand. Her fingers were cold, but they were real. Dotage

It wasn’t difficult. Patience was arguing with a sandwich deliveryman. The front door had a push-bar. Arthur pushed. The air outside was cold and tasted of rain and real things. He walked. His legs were unreliable, two old twigs wrapped in corduroy, but they carried him.

Every morning, he would wake up and assemble his world from scratch. The bed was a raft. The floor was a cold river. The nurse, a sharp-boned woman named Patience (truly, that was her name), would hand him his teeth in a little plastic cup. Prisoners, he thought, looking at the teeth. I have freed them for their morning exercise. “I… know you,” he whispered, the words scraping

“Hello,” she said. “Lovely day for a jailbreak.”

His dotage was not a gentle decline. It was a siege. Her fingers were cold, but they were real

“That’s all right,” she said. “You forgot it ten years ago. You forgot it yesterday. You’ll forget it again tomorrow. But you always find your way back to this bench. You always find me.”