The Daughter

The night shift at Aspen Gardens Care Home ended at seven. At six, Lina did her last round.

She liked the last round. The building was quiet, the windows were turning grey, and most of the residents were still asleep. She walked down the long corridor in her soft shoes, opening each door a little, listening for breathing, checking that nobody needed anything.

Room 112 was Mr. Hughes. He was eighty-seven, a retired train driver, and every evening he told Lina the same story about a moose that had stopped his train for forty minutes in 1979. Lina had heard the story eleven times. She always laughed at the end, because the end was genuinely funny, and because he always looked so pleased when she laughed.

She opened the door of room 112, and Mr. Hughes was on the floor.

He was lying between the bed and the bathroom, with one slipper on and one slipper off. His eyes were open.

"Lina," he said. "I think I did something stupid."