details.

She might describe the day’s weather, mention what she’d prepared for dinner, discuss a television program, or recount an amusing neighborhood incident.

Now her replies were abrupt, emotionless, and strangely mechanical.

They almost seemed prepared in advance.

I became convinced something was wrong.

**The Package on My Porch**

One afternoon, a delivery intended for Dorothy was mistakenly left outside my home.

Seeing her name on the label, I picked it up and walked next door.

I knocked.

Nobody responded.

I tried once more.

Still nothing.

I dialed her number, but she didn’t pick up.

After standing there for a while, I knocked more forcefully.

“Dorothy?”

The house remained silent.

My anxiety was growing.

I returned to my place and searched for the emergency key she’d entrusted to me several years earlier.

She’d specifically wanted me to have it for circumstances like these.

“If you ever can’t reach me,” she