By the time Vivian Mercer climbed out her bedroom window at seventy years old, she had already been called forgetful, fragile, confused, and—worst of all—someone who shouldn’t make her own choices anymore.
“Mother, where do you think you’re going?”
Her son’s voice floated up from the hallway just as she lowered one sensible shoe onto the porch roof.
Vivian froze.
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