“No,” she said, “you’re right.” I offered her my arms, braced, lifted. She took the porch steps one by one and with the same right foot. I opened the door, held her arm through the kitchen. “Want to try the couch?” I asked. She pointed to her room. “How nice,” she said. It was the sheets; she had noticed that I’d folded them, as I’d hoped she would. I helped her sit on the bed and kick her shoes off. She slid one foot under the covers, then the next.

“I made it,” she said. “And now I need a pill.”

“Didn’t you have one before you left?”

“Don’t start with that.” She closed her eyes, and I swallowed the rush of heat rising up my throat. I wanted to be careful, not cruel. My mother was an addict. “An addictive mind,” she said of hers and told me to be careful, too. I went back to the car, got her purse, my phone. I went to the kitchen, washed my hands, counted as I soaped. With a pill already inside her she could only take the fentanyl. It seemed like a reasonable compromise. I pulled two blue gloves roughly from their paper dispenser, snapped them on. I was Shonda, Botox Queen. I was Dr. Holle. I could make a body better. I unboxed a patch, considered cutting it in half, which Nancy had said was an option. I left it whole. In my mother’s room, I alcohol-swabbed the skin on her arm where it would go, fanned it dry. She watched, wordless. I peeled the patch. Goo separated from plastic backing. I pressed it to her.

“That’ll hold a long time,” I said. “Don’t ask me for more.”

“I won’t,” she said, and slept so soon.

I TOOK MY phone to the pillow throne I had built on the couch. I could hear her snoring through the wall and turned on the TV to cover the sound. I made it louder to block the squeak and shatter I imagined the front door would make, broken by a strange man’s hand. Outside, the sun had set. Across the room, my reflection in the windowpane was haloed by the flat-screen’s white glow, the story of a gown, the woman wrapped up inside its feathers and lace.

I’ve found the one, she cried. This is the dress I’ve dreamed of my entire life. She twirled and clapped her hands. Her mother fluffed the train, wiped tears.