When Cate is finally obediently in the tub, Maureen sits on the toilet lid and de-pills an old sweater. She has a little shaver for this purpose. Maureen is encyclopedic in matters of fixing things. Her phone holds a compendium of go-to people for every possible small problem. She is also encyclopedic regarding do-it-yourself tricks, household hints. Many of these are from old books she has lifted from libraries and the kitchens of her friends’ mothers. So many of the fixes are for problems that no longer exist. No one really needs their hat blocked anymore (whatever that was), or their clothesline strengthened for extended use. No one has time to flameproof Halloween costumes by dipping them in a bucket of water and boric acid. On occasion, though, you might be interested in getting chewing gum off the back of your pants (soften with egg white, then put in the washer), and Maureen’s there for you.

When she’s done with the sweater, she brings out her stash of weed. Scrawled in marker across the top of the baggie is

WHITE WIDOW

She sits on the edge of the tub and sifts a teaspoonful of finely ground weed into her vape. When it’s ready, she takes a long, slow pull, then tilts the mouthpiece toward Cate.

“Thank you for all this,” Cate says, then takes a hit.

“I’m trying to do right by you.” She scrubs Cate’s shoulders with a puffy net thing. “I’ve misspent too much time on my way to you. You are a delightful person. Kind and thoughtful and, most important, you are not mentally ill. So I’m making a big play for you. I am squandering my blueberries.”

“What happened tonight just seems part of the everything going wrong in a larger sense. Maybe this new America won’t be as bad as I’m worried it will—”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be worse. But we’ll work at getting in the way.” In Maureen’s worldview, everything is fixable.