I put my half-empty can of Ensure on the counter and set off in search of a bathroom. A short, dark hallway leads away from the mauve living room. There are three doors, all closed. The first opens to an overflowing linen closet that smells of perfumed dryer sheets. The second is a small bedroom with a double bed covered in the ugliest afghan I’ve ever seen—black, red, and yellow rosettes lined up in a perfect grid. The third door opens to a bathroom with 1940s era pink and black tile and a metal grab bar that’s screwed into the wall by the toilet. I open the under-sink cabinet to look for supplies.

Two rolls of toilet paper sit beside glass cleaner and wet wipes. Behind them is a package of Confidence Women’s Underwear (“Now with better fit!”) in lavender plastic wrap. Damn. The woman who lived here probably hadn’t menstruated in years.

Emmaline noses into the crook of my arm as I sit crouched, staring at the package of adult diapers. “I guess it’s better than nothing,” I tell her, resigned. I pull one out of the package and unfold it. Not as bad or bulky as I thought. It’s stretchy in all the right places, and it just might work.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell Emmaline. “Mom wouldn’t want you to stigmatize incontinence wear.” Then I start giggling. But it takes on a high-pitched edge, and I gulp it down before the giggling can become something else.

Suddenly I’m tired, so tired. My shoulder and neck throb with the bruising I took leaping from the ladder. My bitten heel throbs; I should check the bandage and see if running for my life shoved something out of place.

I gingerly take off my boots, shuck my jeans and underwear, and pull on the adult diaper. I put my jeans back on and take a few experimental steps. The jeans aren’t as loose now, which is a good thing, but I crinkle a little with each step.

It’ll do, and my heel can wait until later. My eye sockets feel dry and gummy, and my limbs seem like dead weight as I stumble into the bedroom with the ugly rosette afghan. I yank the bedding down and slide underneath it. Emmaline hops up beside me, and I pull the blankets over us both. I snake an arm around her and bury my nose in her back.

March 18

WETNESS ON MY CHEEK, KEENING IN MY EAR. I SHOOT AWAKE, sitting straight up.

Emmaline laps at my face, whimpering. I force myself to release my death grip on the afghan. My heart rate gradually slows to normal.

Low light filters through the lace curtains, and a chill pricks the air. Birds sing—not just the carrion caw I’ve been hearing endlessly, but actual singing. It’s early morning. I slept for twelve straight hours.