Marjorie’s voice came through the phone thin and shaking. “Tessa, the power went out at the house an hour ago. Forty guests are stuck here because the roads are solid ice. Mr. Okafor’s wife is on oxygen, and her concentrator just died.” I stared at my van through the kitchen window, ice still melting off the ladder rack. “Everyone saw the news,” she whispered. “Please bring the generator. Please.”

Behind her, a man’s voice snapped, “Marjorie, hang up. We will find another electrician.” My mother answered in a tone I had never heard from her. “No, Preston. Not this time.” I was already pulling on my wet coat when a frail, breathless voice reached the phone. “Is that the young woman from the YMCA?” she asked. “Dear, I was the one under the gray blanket this afternoon. Please come.”