June hesitated. “It’s not for me. It’s my neighbor, Helen. She… needs help. She won’t ask, but she really does.”
The tension in her voice made me pause. I’d heard that tone before — the mix of love and worry that comes when someone watches a friend slowly retreat from life.
“Tell me about Helen,” I said, sitting on a nearby stool.
“She used to be so lively,” June said, her voice cracking a little. “Always out in her garden. Her roses won prizes at the fair. But lately… her yard’s a jungle. Newspapers are piling up. I went over to check on her last week, and she barely opened the door. But what I saw—and smelled—behind her…”
She didn’t need to say more. My stomach clenched. I knew exactly what that meant.