She had been a licensed witness for eleven years, which meant she had been present for a significant number of difficult things in other people's lives, and some of the best things too, though in her experience the best things generated the fewest calls. People called for witnesses when something needed to be witnessed, when there was a possibility it might otherwise feel insufficient. The good moments seemed to feel sufficient on their own.
First call was at nine. A medical office. The patient was forty-three and had asked for a witness because she had no family in the area and wanted the information to exist for someone other than herself. Torel sat in the corner chair. She watched. She listened. The doctor was precise and the patient was very still and when it was over the patient said thank you and Torel said you're welcome and left.
Second call was at noon. An apartment kitchen, two people on opposite sides of a table. Both had called the registry, which meant both had understood what they were requesting. The separation took thirty minutes. It did not require documentation, only witnessing. Neither of them looked at her when she left, and she did not expect them to.
Third call was at four. A notary office. A woman was signing away a house she had lived in for twenty-two years. She had asked for a witness because, she said, she didn't want to do it alone. She signed each page slowly. The pen made a small sound on the paper. Torel watched each signature and did not comment on any of them.
She was home by five-thirty. She wrote three entries in her log, date, time, location, event type, and closed the book. On the drive home she had passed the house the woman had signed away. She hadn't meant to. The lights were already off.