By 9 minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore. I dialed 911.

“There’s a school bus parked illegally at an abandoned property on Miller’s Lane,” I told the dispatcher, my voice cracking. “The driver has left the children unsupervised. He’s been inside the house for almost ten minutes.”

At 13 minutes, the front door of the gray house opened. At the exact same second, Deputy Miller’s cruiser came roaring down the dirt road, its gravel tires throwing up a massive gray cloud.

Mr. Doyle stopped dead on the porch steps.

“What’s going on here, Tommy?” Deputy Miller asked as he got out of the car. He looked confused. Oakhaven was too small for this kind of drama, and everyone knew Tommy Doyle.

“I… I had to check on her, Jerry,” Mr. Doyle stammered, using the deputy’s first name. He looked at the cruiser, then at my Chevy Malibu which had pulled up behind it. His eyes were wide and glossy with tears.

“Who is in that house, Tommy?” the deputy asked, stepping closer. “We got a call about unsupervised kids. You know you can’t leave a bus full of children sitting on a logging road.”

“I know. I know,” Mr. Doyle sobbed. He put his face in his hands, the blue thermos clutched against his chest. “But she doesn’t know where she is. If I don’t give her the midday dose, she starts wandering. She thinks she’s back in Ohio. She tries to find the train station.”

Deputy Miller walked up the porch steps and opened the screen door. I got out of my car, my feet crunching softly on the gravel, and stood near the bus door. I wanted to grab Lily, but I was frozen by the raw pain in Mr. Doyle’s voice.

Inside the dark entryway of the gray house, a frail woman in a faded pink cardigan was standing near a small table. Her hair was white and wispy, like dandelion fluff. She was holding a plastic hairbrush, looking around the empty room with confused, frightened eyes.

“Tommy?” she called out, her voice thin and shaking. “Tommy, is that you? The train is coming. We’re going to be late for the wedding.”

“I’m here, Martha. I’m right here, sweetheart,” Mr. Doyle called back. His voice instantly softened, losing all its panic. He walked past the deputy, unscrewing the plastic cup of the thermos. Inside was a small red medicine bottle and a plastic spoon.

It took another hour for the state troopers and the school district supervisor to arrive.

While we waited, Mr. Doyle sat on the wooden steps of the porch, his head bowed. He didn’t try to run. He didn’t make excuses. He just sat there and told the deputy everything.

The woman was Martha, his wife of 42 years.

Two years ago, Martha had been diagnosed with severe, rapid-onset dementia. They had placed her in a specialized state-run care facility in the next county, using every penny of their savings. But within 6 months, Mr. Doyle found bruises on her arms. She had lost 30 pounds, and her clothes were constantly dirty. When he complained, the facility told him that if he didn’t like it, he could pay for private care.