Hannah waited exactly seven minutes before touching Mae's cold body.

Earlier that morning, Hannah had watched from the doorway as Mae massaged olive oil into the frayed ends of her hair, so heavily flecked with white. She'd watched the woman's arthritic hands gingerly stopper the bottle of olive oil.

Mae had noticed her looking and cocked an eyebrow. "The sun's getting on," she'd chastised, "and you've done nothing yet with your day. Go bother Doug for some mint and limes and I'll fix us something sweet."

Hannah had taken her time. She'd let spectacled Doug clasp his chest theatrically at the sight of her, and she'd smiled as he slid the too-ripe limes and a glossy, glazed Satsuma orange tart into a paper bag. She'd felt Doug's fatherly eyes on her back as she walked away from the shoddy fruit and vegetable stand he'd built in front of his house. Then, unable to the resist the potent mix of pastry and fresh citrus, Hannah had waded down through long grass to the water and eaten slowly on a sun-warmed rock. All those minutes, and Hannah hadn't felt it happen.

By the time Hannah walked through the front door, Mae was coughing.

"What's wrong?" Hannah cried, kicking off her shoes as she dropped the bag of limes. She rushed to help the woman into her chair.

Mae struggled to speak as she gripped Hannah's hands between hers. Her eyes were wide and her throat worked furiously. "I'm sorry," she wheezed. "I tried."

"For what?"

"Listen, girl," Mae began urgently, then was silenced by another convulsive fit of coughing. Her face was flushed, her eyes bloodshot. "I want you to go." The coughs turned her voice ragged.

"Go where?" Hannah asked, as she thumped Mae's back.

Throughout Hannah's life, Mae was always trying to keep her home, keep her close, but now she practically hissed, "Run."

"I'll get you some water," Hannah said, and hurried into the kitchen.

Something sharp pricked her foot and she noticed a broken glass, roughly swept into a corner of the room. As she ran the faucet, a shiver danced down her spine. A candle was lit in the windowsill, and the wick was almost spent.

"Mae?" she called out, setting down the glass of water.

Silence.

"Mae," she said, more quietly, and inched into the living room. Mae was slumped in the chair, her hands limp on either side of the armrests. Hannah hurried toward her. "Come on, Mae," she urged, shaking Mae's shoulders. The woman's head rolled back and forth with each movement. Hannah settled Mae's head back against the chair and ran her hand in front of Mae's face, as if polishing a mirror. There was no breath. She held her palm to Mae's chest and felt a horrible stillness.

Sensation drained from Hannah's body as she retreated to the couch. Her hands trembled in her lap as she tried to calm her breath. She felt paralyzed, not knowing what to do and unable to guess. So she sat.

Hannah watched time trickle around the carved wooden face of the living room clock, already knowing that Mae was dead, but relishing the moments when another possibility still seemed to exist. In waiting, all things were possible. She fixed her attention on the slants of noon sun that stretched themselves toward Mae's feet. The arches of her feet faced each other, fallen open like two dark halves of a cracked nut. "Mae?" she pleaded again, weakly.

Ten minutes would have been too much. Ten minutes would have been a long time to live with, later.

Hannah rose unsteadily from the couch and carefully put her pale palm over Mae's neck, covering a