She made extraordinary arrangements at a small studio in downtown Denver. She loved hydrangeas, hated carnations, and could apparently turn a handful of wildflowers into something people were willing to pay hundreds of dollars for.
She was also recovering from a traumatic brain injury sustained in a serious road accident three years earlier.
Most days, she managed her life well.
She worked, organized her own schedule, maintained friendships, and made decisions about her care.
But under severe stress, she sometimes experienced confusion, fatigue, and difficulty placing recent events in order.
Her parents worried about her constantly.
Sometimes too constantly.
I'd witnessed that much as a neighbor.
But I wasn't Kelly's treating clinician, and I had no intention of becoming one.
Right now, my responsibility was simpler.
She was missing.
She was in my house.
And somebody needed to know she was safe.
“Kelly,” I said gently, “people have been looking everywhere for you.”
Her expression changed.
She lowered her eyes.
“I know.”
I waited.
She pressed her fingers into the blanket.
“I didn't mean to scare anybody.”
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
“Have you eaten and had something to drink?”
She nodded toward an empty water bottle and two granola-bar wrappers near the mattress.
“Some.”
I studied her carefully.
She looked tired and embarrassed, but she knew who I was, where she was, and why people might be worried.
I took out my telephone.
“I'm going to let the police know you've been found. Then we can figure out what you need.”
Her breathing quickened.
“Please don't let everybody come up here.”
I nodded.
“Nobody needs to crowd you.”
She looked toward me.
“Promise?”
“I'll ask everyone to give you space. But we do need to make sure you're okay.”
For several seconds, she stared at me.
Then she nodded.
“Okay.”
I called Officer Kenneth Davis, who had been coordinating the neighborhood search.
“Ken, it's Jeffrey Collins.”
He answered immediately.
“Jeffrey? Any news?”
I looked upward.
Kelly was watching me.
“Yes. I found her.”
There was silence.
Then Kenneth's voice sharpened.
“Where?”
“In my attic.”
He didn't answer for a moment.
Then he said, “Your what?”
“My attic. She's awake, speaking with me, and says she's not injured. I'm going to arrange for her to be checked.”
Kenneth exhaled.
“Thank God.”
I gave him the necessary information.
He told me he would notify the appropriate people and come over to speak with Kelly when she was ready.