“God, no. Everything tastes like tree bark. Have you ever eaten tree bark?” She rubbed her fingers together like she had a booger between her fingers and was trying to brush it away.

“No,” I said. “What are you watching?”

“Nothing. Just voices, happy voices. Good show for dying. That, and The Price Is Right. They must be actors these days, they act like such idiots. I don’t remember them being idiots.” She rubbed her fingers together again. “Go and get my smokes, would you? They’re in the toilet.”

“What?”

“Under the, under the, you know, the flap.” She closed her eyes tight, frustrated, searching for a word. “Toilet top. Tank lid.”

“How do you get them back there?”

“DeeDee hides them for me. Don’t you dare tell Trevor or I will tell him all your dirty secrets,” she hissed with such threat, my jaw dropped. “Don’t be a prissy bitch,” she said. “Go fetch them for me.”

Trevor wasn’t joking.

What if she died tonight because I gave her a cigarette?

She whined. “DeeDee! I want DeeDee. Trevor’s a bully and Paulina’s Stalin. I want a cigarette!”

She’s dying. If she wanted a cigarette, she should get one.

“OK. OK. Settle down. I’ll get them.” I walked to the bathroom.

They wouldn’t be under the lid. She was delusional. DeeDee wouldn’t hide cigarettes in the tank.

I lifted the lid.

Unbelievable. A messy patch of silver duct tape, frayed at the edges, held the pack to the underside of the lid.

I set the lid on the sink countertop and freed the pack of smokes. The thin cardboard was soft and flexible in my hand. Half full. I went to the kitchen, opened her silverware drawer, and grabbed matches. I turned off the oven, but left the pierogi in to keep them warm.

I walked into the living room and said, “How many cigarettes do you have each day?”

“Two when DeeDee’s here. DeeDee lets me have two.” Her hands kneaded the sheet pulled up below her flat chest, her breasts fallen to the sides of her ribcage. “But DeeDee isn’t here,” she whined.

“She’s sick,” I said, slipping a cigarette in between my lips. I struck the match against the thin box, but the match cracked.

“Oh, come on. Come on,” she snapped.

I had the urge to laugh, but held back. Struck another match, brought it to the cigarette, and breathed in.

“There you go,” she crooned, her eyes open and staring at the cigarette between my lips. “Come here now, it’ll be alright,” she said, her tone riding the rail between sexual and maternal. When I brought the cigarette close to her mouth, she grabbed my wrist with her shaky hand, pulled it close, and sucked greedily.