Carol shook her head. The door closed.
A deep ragged sigh arose from the bed, and Clarence wiped his face. He peeked at Carol and shuddered. He rolled to his back, exhaled deeply and sat up on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and face in the palms of his hands.
Carol looked everywhere but at him. Nothing on the walls—only a calendar offered by the nursing home. Nothing on the table, except the utilitarian lamp provided by Hillcrest Homes. No cozy afghan draped over the chair. No decorative pillows or knickknacks. The only decoration was his picture outside his door taken upon admittance—she'd taken it herself. Oh, and that scarf with uneven fringe. Even Carol knew a dropped stitch—like someone had hurried to get it done. Somebody made it for him.
What had happened to his family
