One week.
Problem gone.
Instead, treatment involved several pieces.
Securing keys.
Changing nighttime routines.
Improving sleep duration.
Addressing triggers.
Reviewing medications.
Reducing severe sleep deprivation.
Continuing grief therapy.
Tracking episodes.
A temporary period without independent driving until her doctors felt risk was better controlled.
Her sister became transportation.
Corrine hated that.
“You’re enjoying this.”
She accused Iris during the third week.
Iris adjusted the radio.
“I have waited thirty-seven years to become your chauffeur.”
“You're thirty-nine.”
“Exactly.”
Corrine smiled.
The episodes did not disappear overnight.
The first week after the discovery, the hallway camera caught Corrine standing outside her bedroom at 2:07 a.m.
She walked toward the garage.
Stopped at the locked door.
Tried the handle.
Then returned to bed.
Basil was already sitting beside the garage door.
Waiting.
Second week, another episode.
Corrine walked into the kitchen.
Opened a cabinet.
Stood there.
Closed it.
Returned to bed.
Basil followed.
Third week.
Nothing.
Fourth week.
Nothing.
For the first time since adopting him, Basil did not ask to enter the garage.
That detail affected Corrine deeply.
At 9:30, she watched him.
Basil remained on the couch.
No lifted head.
No sudden ears.
No urgency.
He stretched.
Rolled onto his side.
Corrine started crying.
Iris, sitting beside her, asked:
“What?”
“He isn't waiting.”
Iris looked at Basil.
“Isn't that good?”
“Yes.”
Corrine wiped her face.
“He knows.”
Basil slept.
The garage ritual had never been about warmth.
It had never been about the car.
Somehow, through repetition, Basil learned Corrine’s nocturnal pattern before Corrine did.
Maybe he heard her move in the bedroom.
Maybe he sensed subtle changes.
Maybe at first he simply happened to follow her, then learned that certain nighttime cues meant she would eventually come through that door.
Corrine would never know exactly.
What she knew was enough.
Every night he waited.
When Corrine walked into the garage in a state she could not remember, Basil was already there.
Not stopping her.
Cats do not understand parasomnia.
Not protecting her in the human sense.
But accompanying her.
The difference mattered.
Corrine refused to turn Basil into a magical animal that had diagnosed a neurological disorder.
He had not.
He had simply behaved consistently enough that she noticed something was wrong.
That was remarkable enough.
Lena helped her understand another part.
“You keep saying Basil saved you.”
“He did.”
“He helped reveal the problem.”
“Yes.”
“There were other things too.”
“Like what?”
“You wrote down the mileage.”
“You noticed the seat.”
“You called Iris.”
“You bought cameras.”
“You called your doctor.”
Corrine looked uncomfortable.
Lena continued.
“I don't want you to erase yourself from your own survival.”
Corrine stared at the floor.
“I’m good at that.”
“I know.”
For years, Corrine had defined love as staying useful to other people.
Evelyn.
Luke.
Work.
Even grief had become another task she believed she should manage privately.
Basil disrupted that.
He needed her.
But not constantly.
He also stayed near her when she needed something.
That was new.
Three months passed.
Corrine’s sleep improved.
Her doctor eventually allowed a gradual return to driving after sustained improvement, safety planning, and no further complex episodes.
The first time she drove again, Iris sat in the passenger seat.
“Do not critique me.”
Iris said.
“You're the passenger.”
“I am an excellent passenger.”
“You gasp at merging.”
“Because people merge badly.”
Corrine laughed.
Basil was not in the car.
He was home.
That felt important too.
The Subaru stopped being the place where something frightening happened without Corrine’s memory.
It became a car again.
Work.
Groceries.
Therapy.
Shelter visits.