A Tragic Kind of Wonderful. Eric Lindstrom

is decked out with her own furniture but the open cardboard boxes scattered around are still filled with all sorts of other stuff. New residents often take a while to unpack. Dr. Jordan told me that even those who are glad to be moving in don’t rush because they realize it’s possibly the last time they’ll ever do it.

      “Not tired?” I say. “Me neither. You like solitaire?”

      “I like gin rummy better.”

      I smile.

      She doesn’t, but her eyes crinkle at the corners.

      After no more than ten minutes of playing, three hands at most—and she wins them all—I say something about how long we’ve gone without rain.

      Ms. Li flaps her hands, face puckering like she’d bitten a moldy grape. “I’m too old to waste time talking about things we both know! Tell me who’s who and what’s what around here.”

      And so it goes. Hours later it’s clear she didn’t just want some orientation. She really has no patience for small talk. Nothing we discuss is trivial, and somehow, around two in the morning, when she finally starts nodding off and I say good night, I head for home fully recharged despite having had no time to myself. It’s something I haven’t felt in over a year.