Bettye Joe could see the desk from where she sat. She must get to it and find her tattered checkbook. The letter had said her account was about to be closed if she didn’t send a payment. She began inching one hip forward at a time: left scooch, right scooch, left scooch, reach, stretch, lean. She grasped one handle of her walker with the three fingers that could still extend from her knarled hand , and she pulled hard, straining and groaning, willing her rear off the chair and onto shaking legs that protested even her slight weight. Now to convince her feet to shuffle the 25 steps to the desk…