I arrived at Shady Pines at six in the morning, when the mist was still hanging low over the gravel parking lot. My boots made no sound on the damp grass as I walked toward the side entrance, wrapping my worn cardigan tight against the chill.
The kitchen always smelled of dry toast and steam at that hour. I loaded the green plastic trays onto the large metal cart, checking each slip of paper to make sure the diets matched the room numbers.
Mrs. Gable in room one hundred two required pureed peaches, while Mr. Henderson in one hundred five always demanded two extra packets of grape jelly. I checked the list twice, a habit I had formed back when a single mistake on a chore list meant losing my weekend privileges in the group home.
Gloria’s slip was at the very bottom of the stack, under a neat metal dome that kept her dry toast warm.
When I pushed the cart into the dining room, the morning sun was just hitting the floor, cutting through the steam from the coffee maker. Gloria was already seated at her usual table by the south corner, her back perfectly straight against the wooden chair.
The soft-scrambled eggs on her plate were completely cold, but she had not touched them. Instead, she was staring at the small scar on my right thumb as I set the tray down.
I moved the plastic salt shaker two inches to the left, aligning it with the edge of her paper napkin. She always preferred things to be in straight lines, even if she did not eat.
“You have been carrying trays your whole life, have you not, Daniel?” she asked.
Her voice was clear and sharp, not like the other residents who mumbled or lost their train of thought before breakfast arrived.
“Since I was sixteen,” I said.
“A steady hand is a rare thing in this building,” Gloria said. “Most of the staff rush as if they are running from a fire.”
“I like to take my time,” I said.
I adjusted the small carton of milk so the plastic straw faced her.
