Tony
The rehab wing of the Happy Pines nursing home smelled overcooked oatmeal and Ensure, a scent that must have felt like a personal insult to someone like Aunt Dot, who spent their life around Madagascar vanilla and toasted pecans. But Dorothy Kent was doing her best to overwhelm the sterile air with the scent of Bermuda violets and sheer, stubborn willpower.
She wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t in bed.I found her halfway down the north corridor. She was shuffling along in a ratty floral robe, a portable heart monitor hanging around her neck like a clunky piece of avant-garde jewelry. A young nurse was trailed behind her, looking somewhere between exasperated and impressed.
"You're dragging your left heel, Dot," I called out, leaning against the hand rail on the wall.
Dot stopped, adj
