My 8-year-old son started sleeping on the floor outside his grandma’s bedroom — and at 4 a.m., I heard him whisper, “I won’t let Uncle Craig do it to Grandma again.”

Dates.

Times.

Notes in the clipped shorthand of a woman who’d logged ten thousand calls.

“August thirty-first, two-forty p.m., my kitchen. C. records me three times. ‘My name is Lenora Pratt, and I authorize.’ Told him I was dizzy. He said, ‘Again.’ September twenty-eighth, here. Same.”

I looked at the page.

“Authorize what?”

“My savings. Two hundred twelve thousand dollars at the credit union.” She said it so evenly that I felt it more than if she’d shouted. “Thirty-one years of night shifts. Your father’s life insurance. Every Christmas I didn’t buy myself anything. It’s all in one account, and the credit union lets members move money over the phone by voice. They call it Voice Verify. ‘My voice is my password.’”

“He’s recording you to — to —”

“To be me,” my mother said. “On the phone. For about ninety seconds.”