When I stand back up, I do feel more centered, with my spine better aligned. The apartment is almost gloomy in this light, and I straighten up the sofa, putting the pillows back in their place, making sure to leave no residue of myself on the carpet.

I don’t think I’ve ever been here completely alone, and the fact that she trusts me to be here now only makes my accusations against Anneliese even more treacherous. She opened her home to me, and how have I repaid her? Closing my eyes again, I visualize the hot ball, trying to get my bearings before I leave.

It’s not until I’ve opened my eyes that I realize I’ve been gnawing on my lip, that I taste a salty dribble of blood running down the side of my mouth. I wait for a moment, almost as if I want it to trickle down my mouth and stain my shirt. But I wipe it away at the last second, just as it hits my chin.

I go into the kids’ bathroom to dab the lip, to find some Neosporin to put on the cut. There are toys abandoned in the bathtub, a plastic truck and a naked doll, but otherwise it’s clean like the rest of the apartment, the toilet water blue, the pink bubblegum-flavored toothpaste standing like a sentry next to the toothbrushes, all aligned with the sink’s edges. Even the toilet paper is folded into a triangle at the tip.

I open the medicine cabinet, scanning for the Neosporin among the various crammed, but orderly, items—Q-tips, extra toothpastes, a first aid kit, bottles of goopy kids’ cold and stomach medicines. The shelves are all neat, organized by use, so I find the Neosporin near the Band-Aids, but my wayward hand flings the kids’ Flintstones vitamins off the shelf, too, dislodging the childproof lid that must not have been screwed on, and spilling the pastel tablets into the sink.

I start grabbing at the chalky pieces before they fall down the drain. They really haven’t changed kids’ multivitamins much, I think, as I collect them in my hand, ready to dump them back into the container.

But I pause. Because there’s an aberration among the tiny Freds and Barneys. I’d recognize what I see at the bottom of the bottle anywhere after years of making sure my dad took his medications.

I grip the sink, my stomach tumbling, and place the bottle down on the ledge, sinking to my knees, all sense of ease extinguished. I pick up the bottle again, shake everything remaining in it onto my palm, bring it up to my eyes to inspect even closer.