Chap­ter 6 begins with Patri­cia sur­round­ed by kindness—flowers, food, and famil­iar faces stop­ping by to offer com­fort in the after­math of her injury. The key­word, Chap­ter 6, cap­tures this inter­sec­tion of com­mu­ni­ty sup­port and qui­et guilt. Although her neigh­bors mean well, Patri­cia feels a nag­ging oblig­a­tion to pass the kind­ness for­ward. She decides to re-gift one of the casseroles, choos­ing the taco dish to deliv­er to Ann Savage’s nephew as a ges­ture of sym­pa­thy. Out­side, the day warms quick­ly, and the air already car­ries the weight of sum­mer. Her hus­band Carter has left ear­ly for the hos­pi­tal, leav­ing her to nav­i­gate the morn­ing with Miss Mary and Mrs. Greene, both set­tled on the back patio. A black marsh rat bolts across the yard, star­tling every­one and draw­ing Patricia’s atten­tion to the creep­ing dis­com­forts in her home—rats, heat, and unpre­dictable behav­ior.

As Patri­cia pre­pares to walk the casse­role over to Mrs. Savage’s cot­tage, the street feels both famil­iar and alien. Devel­op­ment has start­ed to reshape the neigh­bor­hood, replac­ing mod­est homes with tow­er­ing man­sions that crowd the prop­er­ty lines. The change unset­tles her, but she refo­cus­es on the errand. Upon reach­ing the house, she knocks sev­er­al times with­out answer. The nephew’s white van is parked near­by, sug­gest­ing he’s home, but silence fills the air. Patri­cia peers around and final­ly opens the door, telling her­self she’ll sim­ply drop the casse­role on the kitchen counter. The inte­ri­or is dim, clut­tered, and stale. Her eyes adjust slow­ly to the mess—old fur­ni­ture, mag­a­zines, dusty books, and the smell of dis­use. She fol­lows the sound of a run­ning air con­di­tion­er to a back room and hes­i­tant­ly steps inside.

What she sees stops her cold. The nephew lies motion­less on the bed, ful­ly dressed, pale and still. Patricia’s nurs­ing instincts engage, and she approach­es, check­ing for breath, pulse, and obstruc­tion. Find­ing none, she per­forms CPR, her body react­ing auto­mat­i­cal­ly even as her mind recoils in dis­be­lief. Just as she leans in for anoth­er breath, the man jolts awake vio­lent­ly, slam­ming into her and send­ing her to the floor. Con­fu­sion turns to pan­ic as he shouts, demand­ing to know who she is and how she got in. Breath­less, Patri­cia tries to explain herself—she thought he was dead. She only want­ed to offer con­do­lences and a casse­role. The ten­sion final­ly breaks when he real­izes she act­ed out of con­cern, not inva­sion.

Still dazed, the man—James Harris—processes her words slow­ly. He ques­tions her entry, her inten­tions, and her assump­tions. Patri­cia scram­bles to explain the South­ern cus­tom of neigh­bors walk­ing in, the urgency she felt see­ing no signs of life, and the casse­role she now points to as a peace offer­ing. James, exhaust­ed and con­fused, doesn’t know whether to laugh or be angry. Patri­cia, embar­rassed, attempts to clean up the mess but is told to leave. There’s no rage in his voice, just fatigue. She stands awk­ward­ly, still offer­ing help, but he declines. Patri­cia exits the room—shaken, humil­i­at­ed, and unsure if she’s crossed a bound­ary or saved a life.

This chap­ter del­i­cate­ly blends South­ern hos­pi­tal­i­ty with the poten­tial dan­gers of assump­tion. In tight-knit com­mu­ni­ties like the Old Vil­lage, it’s not uncom­mon for neigh­bors to check in unan­nounced. How­ev­er, mod­ern boundaries—especially between men and women who don’t know each other—can blur that famil­iar­i­ty. Accord­ing to Pew Research, near­ly 60% of Amer­i­cans say they don’t know most of their neigh­bors well, sug­gest­ing that Patricia’s ges­ture, while root­ed in tra­di­tion, reflects a fad­ing norm. Her instincts, sharp­ened by past nurs­ing expe­ri­ence, guide her actions—but her long­ing for con­nec­tion, pur­pose, and per­haps redemp­tion adds emo­tion­al weight. In help­ing, she over­steps. Yet, she also glimpses some­one else who seems lost, a mir­ror to her own unrav­el­ing.