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His mother’s previous care center in Portland had been larger and the staff there had been kind and competent. But somehow the place had always felt more institutional.

This, at least, felt like somewhere people lived, not just waited to die.

It was going to be good for his mom, he told himself. Easier for Kelsey and her family to visit, easier for his grandfather. Yes, it would be harder on him, being hundreds of miles away, but he could drive. He could make the time.

The thought of going back to Portland alone seemed suddenly bleak but he pushed away the feeling. He had built a life there that mattered. Work that mattered.

As they passed the cafeteria, he caught glimpses of a few residents lingering over late lunches, chatting with each other and with an attendant who laughed at something one of them said. The smell of chicken soup and fresh bread trailed after them.

A few doors farther, the faint sound of a guitar drifted into the hallway, followed by raised voices singing “Joy to the World.”

He swore under his breath. He should have asked Ellen exactly which class his mother was in.

“Just through those doors,” the director said, nodding toward the sound.

He suddenly wanted desperately to turn around and head out of the care center. “Maybe I should come back another time, when she’s not in the middle of class,” he said. “I hate to interrupt.”

“Don’t be silly.” Ellen smiled. “You won’t be interrupting. Hannah won’t mind. The class is almost over anyway.”

Hannah.

Of course.

Did Ellen remember that he and Hannah had once been far more than friends? Was that why she was pushing him to go in?

“We can wait out here until the class is over,” he said.

“You should go in and see how your mom is doing.” Ellen’s smile softened. “When she sings, I swear it’s like we have the old Susie back.”

He didn’t have a counterargument for that. What could he possibly say? Ellen gave him an encouraging nod and pushed open the door.

Left with no graceful way out, he followed her inside, Kodiak padding at his heel.

Hannah sat on a chair at the front of the room, guitar balanced on her knee, a semicircle of ten or twelve residents in front of her. Some were in wheelchairs, some on chairs, all holding some kind of instrument. Shakers, bells, a drum, a tambourine.

His mother was on the end of the semicircle, close to Hannah. She gripped a tambourine a little too tightly, her smile so bright it was painful.

“Look who’s here,” Ellen announced. “It’s Susie’s boy, Wes, and his dog Kodiak.”

Hannah’s fingers faltered for the barest fraction of a second on the guitar strings. She did not look thrilled to see him. That was evident.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said quickly. “I don’t mind waiting outside until you’re done.”

“I told you, you’re more than welcome to observe the class,” Ellen said. “We have a policy of total openness with family members. Isn’t that right, Hannah?”

For one wild instant, he thought Hannah might actually clock him with her guitar. Instead, she smoothed her features and gave him a tight, professional smile.

“Sure,” she said. “Take a seat. We’re almost done.”

He didn’t feel like he had much choice. He found an empty chair just behind his mother, Kodiak settling at his feet with a soft huff.

“Okay, everyone,” Hannah said, turning her focus back to the group. “Let’s sing that last verse one more time. Remember, this time we’re going to start quietly, then build to our big ending. Ready?”

She began to strum her guitar and soon the room filled with slightly off-key but wholehearted voices.

Watching her work was fascinating. She was so gentle with her frail clients, but never patronizing.

When a man with trembling hands dropped his shaker, she bent to retrieve it without making a big deal of it, as if people all over the world dropped their instruments mid-song.