Before I could knock, the main door swung open three inches, stopping with a jerk against the brass security chain.
Dorothy looked at me through the gap. She was wearing her good wool cardigan, but her silver hair was slightly disheveled, and she was rubbing her left knee with her free hand.
“I brought dinner, Dorothy,” I said, holding up the warm container. “Are you alright? Why is the chain on?”
“I am perfectly well, Greta,” she said, her voice formal and dry. “You did not need to walk over in the damp.”
“I have your groceries too,” I said, lifting the bag so she could see the milk carton. “Why is that shipping box sitting out here? Do you need help carrying it inside?”
“Leave it on the porch,” she said.
“What is in the box, Dorothy?” I asked, pointing to the cardboard container near the planter. “It says medical supplies. Did Dr. Evans prescribe something new?”
Dorothy rubbed her left knee through her wool slacks, her face tightening. “It is none of your concern, Greta. I am perfectly capable of ordering my own household items.”
