A text comes in as soon as I get home, but I don’t respond right away. I drag myself up the curved staircase to my room and strip immediately, the Dior a pool of couture around my ankles in one swift motion. I get the bulk of my makeup off with one of those premoistened wipes with the satisfying ridges, but it takes three sheets to actually see my skin again, pores and all. Then I slip into a pair of Balenciaga sweats that scream last season but match the low-key vibe I’m going for. I grab the vial from my purse and tuck it into my bra so it can stay warm. I glance at my phone again and decide to reply to my father’s text because he’s impatient, and also, he is dying.

Are you upstairs? Let’s talk.

My father does not want to talk. He wants to probe. Today is test day.

Every month I have to squat over a tiny plastic cup and until my piss comes back clean, not even a trace of cannabis in my veins, I don’t get my trust, the money that’s been waiting for me since before I was even brought home from the hospital. I should have gotten it back in April when I turned twenty-one, but the test came back positive. I went through the same humiliation last month to my father’s delight, who has already cut off my allowance. There is no way I can fail this time. He gave me a six-month deadline to get clean or my five million goes to charity, and time is running out.

But I’ve handled it. The test will come back clean this time.

In my room, I finally send back, falling onto my bed. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring at the ceiling.

Before I can stop her, my one-eyed calico leaps onto the bed next to me and rolls around on her side, gazing up at me like she wants me to rub her belly. She’s not supposed to be in my room because the sheets and the carpet get covered in dander, which means I break out in hives and turn into a coughing, wheezing monster with puffy eyes no concealer can hide. But she’s cute, and today has been so stressful that even though I haven’t taken my allergy meds, I scoop her into my arms and let her rub her cheek into mine.

“Hi, Cindy. Missed you today,” I whisper, staring into her dilated eyes, and I can’t help but think of my mother. She adopted Cindy right before her cancer diagnosis, and now she is one of the only things that makes this cold house feel like a home. One of the only pieces of her I have left.