There were conversations in the grocery store, or at the bus stop, no one but Brenda could hear. Floorboards squeaked when she was the only one in the house. Brenda's upstairs bedroom could feel like a meat locker in the middle of August. There were just no good reasons for any of the things Brenda regularly heard and felt. Or saw, for that matter. Mornings would be sad, dull affairs if her friendly helping hand didn't toast the bread and brew the coffee. Having someone, or a partial someone, make breakfast for her freed up Brenda's time so she could work on her memoir. She remembered waking up in the hospital, strapped to the bed and sweaty. A gentle voice near Brenda's ear said she'd be o.k. A helping hand wiped away her tears. Monitors beeped and blinked. Brenda didn't know where to go from there and stared at the blank page. She was grateful for the steaming mug handed to her as she searched for the right words.