Miguel had been driving Mrs. Nguyen to dialysis for eight months, every Tuesday and Thursday at seven-thirty in the morning, and every Saturday at noon. She always waited outside her apartment building on East Thomas Road, always wore the same navy blue coat even when it hit ninety degrees by nine, always had exact change ready though he told her the app handled payment.
This Tuesday she wasn't there.
He waited five minutes, then ten. Called through the app. No answer. He could have marked it as a no-show, collected his cancellation fee, moved on to the next ride. The morning rush was starting. Airport runs paid well.
Instead, he put the Camry in park and walked to the building's entry. The security door hung loose on its hinges. Inside, the hallway smelled like cooking oil and something else, something chemical. Pine-Sol maybe. He knew she lived in 2B. She'd mentioned it once when talking about the noise from 2A, how the young couple fought all night, threw things.
He knocked. Nothing. Knocked again, harder.
"Mrs. Nguyen? It's Miguel. Your driver."
The door was unlocked.
The apartment was small, tidy except for the stacks of unopened mail on a card table by the window. Lots of red stamps. FINAL NOTICE. PAST DUE. The walls were covered with photographs. A young man in Army dress uniform. The same young man at different ages—as a baby, a graduate in cap and gown, standing next to a younger Mrs. Nguyen outside what looked like a restaurant.
"Mrs. Nguyen?"
He found her in the bathroom, crumpled between the toilet and the bathtub. Still breathing, but her eyes were closed, her face gray. There was blood on the tile, not much, probably from where her head hit the sink going down.
He called 911, gave the address, stayed on the line while they dispatched the ambulance. The operator asked him questions. Was she conscious? No. Breathing? Yes. Any visible injuries? Some blood, not much. His relationship to the patient? He hesitated. "I'm her driver," he said.
While they waited, he held her hand. It was small, bird-like, the skin paper-thin. She'd painted her nails recently, a careful pink. She always dressed well for her appointments. Always had her hair done.
The paramedics arrived in twelve minutes. They worked quickly, efficiently, asking him questions while they checked her vitals, started an IV, lifted her onto the gurney.
"You family?" the younger one asked.
"No, I just drive her to appointments."
"Know if she has any family we should contact?"
Miguel looked at the photographs on the wall. "She has a son in California," he said.
At Banner Good Samaritan, they wouldn't tell him anything. He wasn't family. He sat in the waiting room for two hours, watching CNN on mute, drinking coffee from a vending machine that tasted like burnt plastic. His phone kept pinging with ride requests. He turned off the app.
A social worker finally came out. Cheryl, according to her badge. Young, tired-looking, carrying a clipboard like a shield.
"You're the one who brought in Mrs. Nguyen?"
"I found her. Is she okay?"
"She's stable. Severe dehydration, possible stroke. We're running tests." Cheryl sat down next to him. "The paramedics said you mentioned a son?"
"That's what she told me. Lives in California. Has kids of his own."
"We can't find any emergency contacts. Her insurance information is outdated. Do you know the son's name?"
"David, I think. David Nguyen."
Cheryl made a note. "We'll look into it. Thank you for bringing her in."
"Can I see her?"
"Are you family?"
"No, but—"
"I'm sorry. HIPAA regulations."
He drove home, took three Advil for his back, lay down on his couch. The apartment was quiet. One bedroom, kitchenette, a window that faced another building's brick wall. He'd moved here after the divorce, meant it to be temporary. That was three years ago.
He thought about Mrs. Nguyen's apartment, all those photographs. Every Thursday, she talked about David. How well his restaurant was doing. How smart his kids were, especially the oldest, who was studying to be a doctor. Just last week she'd said David was planning to visit for Thanksgiving, bring the whole family.
The next morning, he went back to the hospital. Cheryl was there, looking like she hadn't left.
"Mr. Hernandez. I was hoping you'd come back."
"Did you find the son?"
She pulled him aside, lowered her voice. "David Nguyen was killed in Iraq in 2008. He was a staff sergeant in the Army."
Miguel felt something cold move through his chest. "But she talks about him all the time. Says he owns a restaurant."
"It happens more than you'd think. Especially with elderly patients living alone." Cheryl rubbed her eyes. "She's awake, by the way. Asking for her son."
"What are you going to tell her?"
"I don't know yet. We have a psychiatric consultant coming." She paused. "She keeps mentioning someone named Miguel. Says he's supposed to drive her to dialysis."
"That's me."
"Would you— Would you mind talking to her? Sometimes a familiar face helps."
The room was dim, machines beeping softly. Mrs. Nguyen looked smaller in the hospital bed, frailer. Her eyes were open but unfocused.
"Mrs. Nguyen? It's Miguel."
Her eyes found him. "Miguel. Did you wait long? I'm sorry. I must have overslept."
"It's okay. Don't worry about it."
"I need to get to dialysis. They get upset when I'm late."
"You're in the hospital, Mrs. Nguyen. You fell."
Her face clouded. "No. No, I have dialysis. Tuesday and Thursday and Saturday. You drive me."
"It's Wednesday. You're okay. Just rest."
"I need to call David. He'll worry."
Miguel looked at Cheryl, who shook her head slightly.
"I'm sure David knows you're here," he said.
"Yes." Mrs. Nguyen closed her eyes. "Yes, David always knows."
They put her in a rehabilitation facility after a week. Desert Palms Senior Care, out on Bell Road. Medicaid would cover thirty days, Cheryl explained, then they'd reassess. The place smelled like disinfectant and cafeteria food. The walls were beige, the floors were beige, everything was beige.
Miguel visited on Sunday. Brought flowers from the grocery store, carnations because they were on sale. She was in the common room, sitting in a wheelchair, staring at a game show on the television.
"Mrs. Nguyen?"
She turned, and for a moment didn't recognize him. Then her face changed. "Miguel. My driver."
"How are you feeling?"
"They won't let me leave. I missed dialysis."
"They're doing your dialysis here. The nurse told me."
"It's not the same. My doctor knows how to do it right. Dr. Pham. You've driven me there."
He had been driving her to a Dr. Patel, but he didn't correct her.
"I brought you flowers."
"They're lovely." She touched one of the carnations gently. "David loves carnations. His wife grows them in their garden."
An aide came over, took the flowers to put in water. Mrs. Nguyen watched her go, then turned back to Miguel.
"I need to go home. Can you drive me home?"
"Not today. You need to get better first."
"I am better. I'm fine." Her voice rose slightly. Other residents looked over. "Please. I have money. I can pay extra."
"It's not about money, Mrs. Nguyen."
"Then what? What do you want?"
The desperation in her voice made him think of his mother. Those last months when the cancer had spread to her brain, when she'd forgotten who he was, kept asking for his father who'd been dead for ten years. He'd stopped visiting. Told himself it was too hard to see her like that, that she didn't know the difference anyway. The nurse called when she died. Said she'd been asking for him.
"I'll talk to them," he said. "See what I can do."
But there was nothing he could do. She was a ward of the state now, Cheryl explained when he called. No family, no power of attorney, no advanced directives. She'd stay at Desert Palms until Medicaid stopped paying, then they'd move her somewhere cheaper.
He started visiting twice a week. Brought Vietnamese food from a place on 19th Avenue—pho, spring rolls, things she'd mentioned missing. Sometimes she knew him, sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she talked about David's restaurant, his kids, his wife's garden. Sometimes she just stared at the television.
One Tuesday, about three weeks in, she was lucid. Clear-eyed, present.
"I know about David," she said when he walked in.
He sat down slowly. "What about David?"
"I know he's gone. Killed in Fallujah. 2008." She was looking out the window at the parking lot. "They told me. The social worker. She thought I didn't know."
"Mrs. Nguyen—"
"I do know. I've always known. I have the flag they gave me. The medals." She turned to look at him. "But sometimes it's easier to pretend."
"I understand."
"Do you have children?"
"No. My wife and I, we tried, but it didn't happen."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay. It was a long time ago."
They sat quietly for a while. Someone down the hall was calling for help, the same word over and over.
"He wanted to be a chef," she said. "David. That was his dream. Open a Vietnamese restaurant, authentic food, not the Americanized stuff. He was going to call it Saigon Gardens."
"That's a nice name."
"I taught him all my mother's recipes. He was good. Very good." She smiled slightly. "Sometimes I can still taste his spring rolls. Better than mine, though I never told him that."
"I'm sure he knew."
"Perhaps." She closed her eyes. "Will you drive me to dialysis tomorrow?"
"You're getting dialysis here, remember?"
"Right. Of course." She opened her eyes again. "But when I go home. Will you still drive me?"
"Yes," he said. "When you go home."
But she never went home. The thirty days ended, they moved her to a different facility, then another. Each one a little worse than the last. Miguel kept visiting, though less frequently. His back was getting worse. He needed the money, had to take more rides, longer shifts.
The last time he saw her was a Thursday in November. The week before Thanksgiving. She was sleeping when he arrived, and he sat by her bed for an hour, waiting for her to wake up. She looked peaceful, younger somehow. When she finally opened her eyes, she smiled.
"David," she said. "You came."
He started to correct her, then stopped. "Yes," he said. "I came."
"I knew you would. You always were a good son."
"Thank you, Ma."
"Are the children with you? And Lisa?"
"They're outside. They'll come in soon."
"Good. Good." She reached for his hand. "The restaurant? Is it doing well?"
"Very well. Everything you taught me, I use it every day."
"The spring rolls?"
"Especially the spring rolls."
She smiled, closed her eyes again. "I'm tired, David."
"Rest, Ma. I'll be here."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
She died that night. The facility called him because he was listed as an emergency contact, though he didn't remember giving them his information. There was no funeral. The state cremated her, gave him the ashes in a plastic container because he didn't know what else to do.
He kept driving. The same routes, the same times. New passengers filled the spots where she used to be. A businessman who always took calls during the ride. A college student who never looked up from her phone. An old man who wanted to talk about baseball, nothing but baseball.
Three months later, he was cleaning out his car and found one of Mrs. Nguyen's pills under the passenger seat. A small white tablet, probably for blood pressure or cholesterol or one of the dozen things she took. He held it in his palm for a long moment, then threw it away.
The next Tuesday, at seven-thirty in the morning, he found himself on East Thomas Road. Her apartment building looked the same. The broken security door, the cooking oil smell. Someone else lived in 2B now. He could hear music through the door, something with a heavy bass line.
He sat in his car for a while, engine running, watching the building. His phone pinged with a ride request. Airport run, good money. He thought about Mrs. Nguyen, about David, about his mother. About all the lies we tell ourselves to get through the day.
He accepted the ride, put the car in drive. The passenger was waiting outside a house in Scottsdale, a woman with two suitcases and a nervous expression.
"Sky Harbor?" he asked when she got in.
"Yes. Terminal 4. I'm going to see my son."
"That's nice. Does he live far?"
"Seattle. He just had a baby. My first grandchild." She was smiling, excited. "A girl. They named her after me. Linda."
"Congratulations."
"Thank you. I haven't seen him in two years. We had a falling out, you know how it is. But babies change things, don't they?"
"Yes," Miguel said. "They do."
She talked the whole way to the airport about her son, the new baby, her plans for the visit. He listened, made appropriate sounds, watched the road. When they arrived, he helped with her suitcases, wished her luck.
"Thank you," she said. "You're very kind."
He got back in the car, checked the app. Another request, this one from Sun City. A medical appointment, probably. Lots of medical appointments in Sun City. He accepted it, started driving.
The passenger was an elderly woman, Korean or maybe Chinese, wearing a bright red coat despite the morning heat. She got in carefully, favoring her left hip.
"Good morning," she said. "Banner Good Samaritan, please. The dialysis center."
"I know where it is."
"Oh good. I go three times a week. Very tiresome, but what can you do?" She settled back in the seat. "My daughter usually drives me, but she's out of town. Business trip."
"What kind of business?"
"She's a doctor. Pediatric surgeon. Very successful." The woman smiled proudly. "She wanted me to move in with her, but I like my independence. You understand."
"I do."
They drove in silence for a while. The morning traffic was building, but he knew the shortcuts, the back routes. Eight months of driving Mrs. Nguyen had taught him every faster way to the dialysis center.
"You're a good driver," the woman said. "Very smooth."
"Thank you."
"Do you have regular passengers? People you drive often?"
He thought about it. "Sometimes. Not as much anymore."
"That's a shame. It's nice to have familiar faces, don't you think? Especially at our age." She laughed. "Well, my age. You're still young."
"Not that young."
"Young enough." She was looking out the window now, watching the city pass by. "My daughter worries about me. Living alone, taking Ubers. But I tell her, what's the alternative? Sit at home, watch television, wait to die? No thank you."
They arrived at the dialysis center. He pulled up to the entrance, put on his flashers. She gathered her purse, her jacket, moving slowly.
"Same time Thursday?" she asked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Will you be available Thursday? Same time? I'd like to request you specifically, if that's possible."
He looked at her. She had a kind face, hopeful.
"I can be available," he said.
"Wonderful. How do I request you? I'm not very good with these apps."
He showed her how to do it, writing down his driver number on a piece of paper from her purse. She thanked him, got out carefully, walked toward the entrance with that slight favoring of her left hip.
He watched until she was inside, then pulled away. The app was pinging again. Airport run. Downtown. Back to the airport. The endless cycle of strangers, their stories, their destinations. But Thursday morning, seven-thirty, he'd be here. Same place, same time. It was something.
He thought about Mrs. Nguyen's ashes, still in his apartment, still in the plastic container. He should do something with them. Scatter them somewhere meaningful. But where? He didn't know where she was from originally, what places mattered to her beyond the dialysis center and her apartment full of photographs.
Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe the important thing was that someone remembered, someone knew the truth behind the stories she told. He'd been that person, at the end. It wasn't much, but it was something.
The next ride request came in. Medical center to Tempe. He accepted it, merged into traffic, drove on. The city spread out around him, all those lives in motion, all those stories being told and untold and retold. He was just a driver, moving through it all, carrying people from one point to another. But sometimes that was enough. Sometimes that was everything.
The Thursday morning passenger was waiting outside her building at seven-twenty-five. The same red coat, the same careful way of getting into the car. She smiled when she saw him.
"You came," she said.
"I said I would."
"Yes, but people say things. Thank you."
They drove to dialysis, talking about the weather, her daughter, the new restaurant that had opened near her apartment. Normal things. True things, as far as he could tell. When they arrived, she asked if he could drive her again on Saturday.
"Noon?" he asked.
"How did you know?"
"Lucky guess."
She laughed. "Noon it is then."
He watched her walk into the center, then sat in his car for a moment before accepting the next ride. He thought about Mrs. Nguyen, how she'd always thanked him, always had exact change ready even though she didn't need it. How she'd created a whole life for her dead son, a wife, children, a restaurant called Saigon Gardens. How that fiction had been more real to her than anything else, and who was he to say it wasn't true in some way that mattered?
His phone rang. Cheryl from the hospital.
"Mr. Hernandez? I wanted to let you know, we found some of Mrs. Nguyen's belongings. Photos, some documents. I know you were close to her. Would you like them?"
"Yes," he said. "I'll come by."
"There's also a flag. Folded in a triangle. And some medals."
"I'll take those too."
"Good. Good. She was lucky to have you, you know. A lot of people die alone in this city. Really alone. At least she had someone who cared."
After he hung up, he sat for a while longer, engine running, watching people go in and out of the dialysis center. All those failing bodies, all that necessary maintenance just to keep going another day, another week. He understood it better now, the repetition, the routine. How you could build a life around those small anchors—Tuesday and Thursday and Saturday, seven-thirty and seven-thirty and noon.
He picked up the belongings from the hospital that afternoon. The photos were carefully preserved in plastic sleeves. David as a baby, as a boy, as a young man in uniform. His mother young too, beautiful, standing in front of what looked like a small restaurant in what might have been Saigon, might have been anywhere. The flag was heavy, the stars bright white against the dark blue. The medals were in a small box—Bronze Star, Purple Heart, others he didn't recognize.
That evening, he spread everything out on his kitchen table. Found a photo of David in his dress uniform, serious-faced, proud. He looked about twenty-five, thirty at most. His whole life ahead of him, or so it would have seemed. In the photo, Mrs. Nguyen stood beside him, barely coming up to his shoulder, beaming.
Miguel picked up his phone, searched for Saigon Gardens restaurant. There were three in Phoenix, two in Scottsdale, one in Tempe. None of them owned by a David Nguyen, of course. But he called the one in Tempe anyway, asked if they delivered.
"Yes sir, where to?"
He gave his address, ordered spring rolls, pho, the things Mrs. Nguyen had liked. While he waited, he found a better container for her ashes online, ordered it for next-day delivery. Simple, dignified, with a place for a photo.
The food arrived in forty minutes. He ate slowly, trying to taste what she might have tasted, what her son might have cooked if he'd lived, if he'd opened his restaurant. The spring rolls were good, though probably not as good as David's would have been, at least in her memory.
His new passenger texted him that night. Her daughter had arranged for a different ride for Saturday, she was sorry, but could he drive her Tuesday? Of course, he replied. Seven-thirty.
He would drive her to dialysis, and maybe she would become a regular, and maybe she would tell him about her daughter the pediatric surgeon, and maybe it would all be true or maybe not, and what difference did it make? We all told ourselves stories to get through the day. The important thing was to have someone listen, someone to witness the story, true or false or somewhere in between.
He cleaned up the take-out containers, turned off the lights. His back hurt, but not too bad. Tomorrow he'd work the morning shift, the airport runs, the medical appointments. The endless circulation of the city. But tonight he sat in the dark, thinking about Mrs. Nguyen, about David, about his own mother whose story he'd never really heard, never really wanted to hear until it was too late.
Outside, the city hummed with its million small dramas, its million small lies and truths. Somewhere, someone was dying alone. Somewhere, someone was being born. Somewhere, someone was pretending their dead son was alive, and somewhere, someone was pretending to be that son, if only for a moment, if only to ease the passing.
It wasn't much, but it was something. In the morning, he'd scatter the ashes in the desert, somewhere with a view of the mountains. Somewhere peaceful. Then he'd go back to work, back to the car, back to the stories. Tuesday and Thursday and Saturday. Seven-thirty and seven-thirty and noon. The small anchors that keep us moored to the world, even as we drift toward whatever comes next.