Chap­ter 13 begins with Patri­cia wit­ness­ing the grim real­i­ty of Miss Mary’s declin­ing health, her injuries too severe for recov­ery. The emo­tion­al bur­den weighs heav­i­ly on Carter, who chan­nels his grief into relent­less work, pre­tend­ing every­thing remains under con­trol. Though Patri­cia sens­es his pain, she’s unsure how to com­fort him and instead steps up to man­age what remains—repairing bro­ken rou­tines, bat­tling a wors­en­ing rat prob­lem at her house, and tend­ing to Rag­tag, their injured dog, who may not sur­vive the trau­ma. Amid the chaos, grief lingers, but prac­ti­cal duties pull her for­ward.

The community’s response to Miss Mary’s death is a mix­ture of com­pas­sion and avoid­ance. Neigh­bors show up with food and con­do­lences, but none can erase the hol­low qui­et that now fills Carter’s home. Patri­cia finds her­self stuck between want­i­ng to help and feel­ing intru­sive, espe­cial­ly as she wres­tles with unre­solved ten­sion with Mrs. Greene, who was also harmed in the attack. That emo­tion­al gap widens with each failed ges­ture, even as Patri­cia seeks redemp­tion through small, delib­er­ate acts. The rats gnaw­ing through her walls feel symbolic—persistence, inva­sion, decay—all creep­ing in beneath the sur­face.

Efforts to restore nor­mal­cy are made more dif­fi­cult by Carter’s stub­born silence and the heav­i­ness left behind. The rat infes­ta­tion wors­ens, and Ragtag’s con­di­tion declines, his wound refus­ing to heal. Carter, unwill­ing to put the dog down, avoids fac­ing anoth­er loss, forc­ing Patri­cia to han­dle deci­sions she isn’t emo­tion­al­ly ready to make. With each pass­ing day, Patri­cia becomes more entan­gled in the bur­dens of oth­ers, her own feel­ings over­looked as she cleans up, coor­di­nates, and copes. It’s not heroism—it’s duty, made heav­ier by the absence of grat­i­tude or clo­sure.

Lat­er, Patri­cia reflects on Mrs. Greene’s sit­u­a­tion, acknowl­edg­ing her part in the events that led to the woman’s injury. A sense of guilt surfaces—not just for what hap­pened, but for how Patricia’s priv­i­leged detach­ment has kept her from under­stand­ing what oth­ers endure. These reflec­tions push her to con­front uncom­fort­able truths about racial dis­par­i­ties and social blind spots that have long exist­ed in their town. Though well-mean­ing, her actions often come across as trans­ac­tion­al, reveal­ing a pat­tern of con­trol dis­guised as kind­ness. It’s an awak­en­ing wrapped in shame.

A brief but tense encounter with a group of teenagers expos­es more than just fric­tion between gen­er­a­tions. Patri­cia hears the cod­ed mock­ery in their voic­es, their eyes dar­ing her to chal­lenge them. The old safe­ty she once asso­ci­at­ed with her neigh­bor­hood no longer exists. Walls are being redrawn—some lit­er­al, some invisible—as dis­trust seeps into once-famil­iar places. Her instinct to pro­tect clash­es with the fear of being per­ceived as anoth­er enti­tled out­sider, com­pli­cat­ing even her small­est inter­ac­tions.

With Kit­ty at her side, Patri­cia vis­its Mrs. Greene, bear­ing a finan­cial gift dis­guised as a ges­ture of good­will. The offer is met with polite but firm resis­tance. Mrs. Greene, sit­ting upright in her reclin­er despite lin­ger­ing pain, makes it clear that dig­ni­ty can­not be bought or bor­rowed. What she seeks is employ­ment, not pity—a way to sup­port her­self with­out rely­ing on the char­i­ty of those who had pre­vi­ous­ly looked past her strug­gle. This qui­et defi­ance stirs some­thing in Patri­cia that goes beyond guilt: a respect that hadn’t been there before.

What lingers most is Mrs. Greene’s unwa­ver­ing pride in the face of dis­com­fort. Even after injury and insult, she demands con­trol over her own path for­ward. The rejec­tion of char­i­ty is not about pride alone—it’s about reclaim­ing agency in a world where so many deci­sions are made with­out ask­ing. Patri­cia leaves that vis­it sub­dued, her ear­li­er assump­tions frac­tured. It’s the first moment she tru­ly sees Mrs. Greene as her equal, not just as a fig­ure of sym­pa­thy or blame. The dis­tance between them nar­rows slightly—not enough to call them friends, but enough to call it progress.

Back home, Patri­cia walks into the decay­ing scent of Ragtag’s decline and the sound of some­thing scratch­ing behind the kitchen wall. The dog’s breath­ing is faint, his eyes glazed. She knows what must be done but waits any­way, unwill­ing to let anoth­er life slip away just yet. It’s not cowardice—it’s fatigue. Mourn­ing, care­giv­ing, guilt, and sur­vival all blur togeth­er in the dim light­ing of her home, and still, she press­es on. Chap­ter 13 doesn’t offer redemp­tion, but it does reveal growth, earned inch by inch in uncom­fort­able truths and dif­fi­cult good­byes.