The wind arrived before the confirmation email. Rain drove leaves against the kitchen glass, and the maple bent until its upper branches disappeared into darkness. Luis had finished the cable an hour earlier, but I stood in Walter's doorway listening for wood to split. Across the street, my mother's house looked equally vulnerable. For months I had imagined selling it would release me from the duty of noticing every leak, root, and memory. That night, leaving felt less like freedom than refusing to look.

At two in the morning, a branch fell near the curb. It was thin enough for me to drag aside. The repaired trunk held. Walter called from the hospital and asked about the roof before asking about himself. I told him the truth, including the smaller branch and a damp spot by his chimney. He did not accuse me of frightening him. He asked me to write it down so he could decide what came next.

The insurer replied at nine. The policy would renew provisionally, pending a thirty-day inspection of the chimney flashing. I read the message to Walter and Dana when she arrived at his bedside. Dana began apologizing for living so far away. Walter interrupted her. He said distance was not neglect, but secrecy could become it. He admitted he had hidden the notices from both of us because needing help felt like failing an exam everyone else had passed.

When Walter came home, the green bicycle waited beside his porch, polished and fitted with new tires. Luis's daughter circled the court once while Walter judged the gears from his chair. I expected him to complain about my mowing lines. Instead, he asked whether I planned to sell my mother's house. I said I had not decided. He nodded toward the mower and said decisions looked different after you learned which burdens had wheels. Beneath his chair sat another tan envelope, this one addressed to Dana and me.