She had a cane and a walker, but by and large, she refused to use them. She knew it was foolish and just this side of stupid, especially since no one would see her shuffling around, but it was important she prove to herself she could still walk on her own, no matter how much it hurt and how often she teetered or fell.

Sooner or later, the day would come when it was no longer an option. Then, she’d grin and bear it. But until that day…

The fentanyl box was on the table beside the daybed. She pulled the old patch off her arm and folded it over and over like origami, the remaining glue holding the tiny parcel together. She’d wait to throw it in the garbage with the remains of the wet dog food that Buttons didn’t finish. The abuse of fentanyl had hit epidemic proportions. Addicts went through garbage cans looking for used patches, sucking out whatever foul-tasting drug remained.

Kate didn’t want to be responsible for someone overdosing. So she mixed her used patches with the worst trash she could muster and hoped that kept any garbage picking junkies out. The dosage she received was the highest one could get. After three days, it might be time for her to slap on a new patch because the efficacy had worn out, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t still too much for some desperate addict to handle.

Normally, Andrew was there when she changed her patch, watching over her to make sure there were no problems and she wasn’t about to accidentally overdose. But the pain was really bad and she couldn’t wait until he got home.

Buttons watched the entire process, barking once after she’d adhered the new patch to her upper arm.

“I’m glad you approve.”

She shuffled back to the kitchen, picked up his dog dish, and stuck the old patch in the middle of the ground meat in jellied gravy. She tipped the remains into the garbage under the sink and took a few moments to collect herself.

The washer timer said the load she’d put in would be done in twenty minutes. She’d keep herself busy until then so she was awake to throw the clothes in the dryer. With any luck, she’d even get them out and folded before Andrew came home.

Buttons scratched at the back door, whimpering.

“Of course you wait until I get all the way to this side of the house to want to go out.”

Her hip popped but mercifully didn’t dislocate, and Buttons ambled out the open door. Hip dislocations were a bitch. They hurt like red, white, and blue blazes and were not easy to pop back in. Sometimes she needed Andrew to pull on her leg, the dull, wet thup it made assuring her it was back where it was supposed to be.