He let out a long, shaky breath and nodded. He left the coffee tub on my bedside table and slipped out before Karen came back.

Now, I am back home. The front door has a new lock, paid for by my insurance.

Karen brought over some cans of soup on Tuesday, but she left after ten minutes because she said the house smelled like hospital disinfectant. She still talks about assisted living, but I told her to save her breath.

Today is Thursday.

At exactly nine o’clock, I heard the squeak of the blue van. I stood by the kitchen window, holding my mug.

Andre walked up the steps. He didn’t have his hood up today. He set the groceries on the bench, knocked twice, and turned around.

He looked at the window and gave me a big, bright wave.

I waved back with my good hand.

We didn’t have a big emotional chat. He didn’t come inside. He has other stops to make, and I have coffee to drink. It is just a regular Thursday again. But as I watched the blue van squeak its way down the street, I realized that sometimes, the people who save you are just as broken as you are. And somehow, that makes the saving feel a whole lot more real.