Pauline opened her apartment door and confirmed for the aide that she was fine. It was Pinochle Night, she beamed, and everyone was in high spirits. The aide offered a comforting smile, making a mental note to talk to her supervisor about a dementia evaluation (everyone in Pauline’s card group had passed away). Then she heard them. Laughter. Glasses clinking. A chair being pushed back from the table. Pauline opened the door wide enough so that the aide could see Wyatt Banks (died 2010), who gave a little mischievous wave; she gasped, nodded, and fled down the corridor.