Saturday morning began with one set of headlights, then another, until vans and ordinary cars curved along both sides of our gravel road. There were no matching uniforms. One driver wore overalls, another hospital scrubs, and Lenora arrived in a red hatchback with coffee balanced between her knees. Former passengers brought muffins, route magnets, and stories about Elias waiting through appointments without charging for time. I stood on the porch holding the blue envelope. For the first time since the funeral, people addressed me as the person who lived there, not the person who happened to survive him.

Before the convoy left, I asked whether anyone could take Ruthie's Monday route. The schedule was difficult: three hours each way and an overnight return if the clinic ran late. Cal surprised me by raising his hand. He was retired, he said, and had spent the week proving he could drive long distances for the wrong reasons. Lyle paired him with an experienced volunteer. Nora looked angry, then ashamed, then tired. She asked if she could ride along. I told her that decision belonged to Ruthie and the route coordinator, not to me.

The vehicles rolled out slowly, each one sounding its horn once at the bend. I rode with Lyle in Elias's old lead van. At every circle on the map, another person joined or waved from a porch. Grief did not lift, but it stopped being confined to my body. When we returned near dusk, Nora and Cal's suitcases were in the guest room. Nora handed me the missing bedroom key and said they would leave after Monday's drive. I accepted the key without forgiving on command. Nobody hurried. Upstairs, the bed was mine again, but the blue envelope on the pillow held one paper I had not noticed before.