Chap­ter 5 opens with Patri­cia wak­ing to a new reality—her left ear par­tial­ly gone, her face swollen, and a ban­dage wrap­ping her head tight­ly like a mem­o­ry she couldn’t avoid. The key­word, Chap­ter 5, cap­tures the begin­ning of phys­i­cal and emo­tion­al adjust­ment. In the mir­ror, she exam­ines what’s miss­ing, over­whelmed by the loss not just of skin but of some­thing sym­bol­ic: part of her iden­ti­ty. Yet she doesn’t allow her­self to linger in grief. Instead, she moves with pur­pose, dri­ven by the voice that reminds her she must appear strong for her chil­dren. Over break­fast, she unwraps the ban­dage and shows them the wound, turn­ing a moment of vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty into one of resilience. Their reac­tions are sur­pris­ing­ly ten­der, and for a moment, there’s a close­ness she hasn’t felt in a while. Korey stands beside her, Blue offers mor­bid humor, and Patri­cia, in her pain, feels a sliv­er of con­nec­tion thread­ing through the room.

Lat­er, she reas­sures Blue that Miss Mary’s vio­lent act wasn’t intentional—just the result of a fail­ing mind. Her words try to build trust, promis­ing safe­ty even as she ques­tions it her­self. Upstairs, Carter pre­pares for a polit­i­cal lunch with a hos­pi­tal admin­is­tra­tor, eye­ing a pro­mo­tion he’d once claimed not to want. Patri­cia watch­es his ambi­tion flick­er to life, just as she removes her ban­dage and hears him affirm her heal­ing with a kiss that feels gen­uine. These moments of care are fleet­ing, but they mat­ter. The day unfolds with routine—releasing the dog, tend­ing to Miss Mary, greet­ing Mrs. Greene—all teth­ered to Patricia’s desire to keep mov­ing for­ward despite the wound, the noise, and the unan­swered ques­tions. Her dai­ly life, once unre­mark­able, now crack­les with sub­tle dread. Even let­ting the dog out­side now feels like a deci­sion with con­se­quence.

In the kitchen, Patri­cia recalls Miss Mary’s past—how she once read dreams and weath­er from cof­fee grounds, taught in a one-room school­house, and brewed teas that neigh­bors swore worked bet­ter than pills. Her mind, now dulled by age and ill­ness, once brimmed with knowl­edge and grit. That mem­o­ry, frag­ile and glo­ri­ous, lingers as Patri­cia nurs­es her pain and pre­pares to face a com­mu­ni­ty that can’t stop talk­ing. By 9:02 a.m., the phone begins ring­ing. First it’s Grace, deliv­er­ing the day’s update on Ann Savage’s con­di­tion. Then come the calls from neighbors—women pass­ing infor­ma­tion, warn­ings, and half-facts quick­er than any media out­let. One reports a surge in home alarm instal­la­tions. Anoth­er gos­sips about the nephew’s refusal to sell the house. Patri­cia tries to stay gra­cious, but the con­stant chat­ter frays her nerves.

News final­ly arrives: Ann Sav­age has passed. Grace shares the details in a hushed voice—dehydration, infect­ed wounds, sus­pect­ed drug use. Patri­cia feels the weight of it. Not just the death, but every­thing it rep­re­sents. There won’t be a funer­al. There’s no obit­u­ary. Her life end­ed qui­et­ly, with­out clo­sure. Patri­cia is dis­turbed by the idea of some­one being erased so com­plete­ly. She con­sid­ers bring­ing food to the nephew, but Grace dis­cour­ages it. The idea of gift­ing a meal to the fam­i­ly of a woman who bit off part of her ear sounds absurd—but not to Patri­cia. She sees some­thing deep­er in the ges­ture. Maybe an attempt at grace, or maybe a way to qui­et her own guilt.

When Maryellen calls and con­firms that Ann’s remains were cre­mat­ed with­out cer­e­mo­ny, Patri­cia feels hol­lowed out. The lack of mourn­ing dis­turbs her. It becomes clear that the nephew want­ed every­thing han­dled quick­ly and with­out sen­ti­ment. But this end­ing gnaws at Patricia’s conscience—not because she seeks for­give­ness, but because she sees in Ann Sav­age a future reflec­tion of her­self. Aging, fad­ing, being passed from per­son to per­son like a bur­den. It’s a com­mon fear among care­givers, espe­cial­ly women who qui­et­ly shoul­der the weight of oth­ers’ needs until they become invis­i­ble. Accord­ing to AARP stud­ies, care­giv­ing women often expe­ri­ence “antic­i­pa­to­ry grief”—a sense of pre-loss for their own auton­o­my and future.

Patricia’s unease isn’t just about what hap­pened to Ann—it’s about what might hap­pen to her. The chap­ter clos­es on this intro­spec­tion, mak­ing Chap­ter 5 not just about phys­i­cal recov­ery, but about a woman con­fronting the echoes of her own future. Would her chil­dren care for her? Would she end up for­got­ten like the woman across the street? In a soci­ety that often side­lines the elder­ly, Patricia’s con­cerns are far from irrational—they’re uni­ver­sal, deeply human, and heart­break­ing­ly real.