She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and pawed at her nightstand until her fingers brushed the smooth surface of her phone. She held it up and touched the screen toward the top. “Six o’clock.”

She blinked, dragged her fingers through her hair, and then reached for the nightstand lamp and turned it on. A faint light appeared, much like a distant lighthouse trying to cut through thick fog. If she leaned close to the lamp, the brightness increased but offered her no details of her hand inches from her face.

“Another day in paradise.”

The morning routine still took five times as long as it once had, but she was better about getting Avery to help her lay out her clothes. Dark jeans, a black V-neck sweater, and low-heeled boots was her standard uniform. And wearing work clothes made her feel more in control.

In the shower, she turned on the hot spray, closed her eyes, and stepped under it. In these moments she felt normal. That her life was her life. She lingered until the water began to cool. Out of the shower, she reached for the towel that now always hung on the towel rack and dried off.

Makeup remained a daunting task, but she could brush out her hair and dry it with a dryer. She wiped the foggy mirror near her face and peered close, hoping to see something. When she did not see her reflection staring back, the disappointment punched like a prizefighter. “This has to end. It has to get better.”

Finally, squaring her shoulders, she turned from the mirror, dressed, and grabbed her cane by the foot of her bed.

The house was quiet. Avery was still asleep. A good thing, really.

She made her way to the kitchen. She stood for a moment, orienting herself, and then felt for the stove, moved her fingers to the left, and fumbled for the buttons on the coffee maker, which Avery had preset. The buttons felt surprisingly similar, and she pressed several until she heard the machine gurgle.

She touched the screen on her phone and dragged her finger toward the general location of her email icon. She tapped and it indicated it was open. As the voice read back what was mostly junk mail, she grew impatient with the pace. It suddenly sounded slow. “Siri, speed up voice-activated software by twenty percent.”

She processed the emails faster, but a couple of times she had to slow down to make sure she had not missed something critical. The next email was from the Austin Police human resources department. They were requesting a meeting to discuss her disability.

“Disability,” she whispered. The brutally honest word irritated her. “I don’t want to be disabled.”