The day I’d arrived at Palmer House, a woman named Ms. O’Neil, who had long, curly auburn hair (as I was later reminded twice a day for two minutes at a time), gave me a short welcome speech, followed by a tour. She had a stack of supplies waiting for me on her beat-up wooden desk, including a pair of pajamas still on their plastic hanger, a thin graying bath towel and washcloth, the green toothbrush, and a small blue stuffed bunny.

“The pajamas and the rabbit are donations,” she said, almost an apology. “You don’t have to keep them if you don’t want them. I’m sure once your things arrive, you’ll want to wear your own clothes, but that may be a few days—”

“No, I don’t have anything,” I said.

“Like I said, it may be a few days before it gets here,” she said, with the unpleasant smile of someone who was being very patient in the face of stupidity. “But your caseworker will arrange to ship everything—”

“No,” I said. “There’s nothing to ship. They thought I was going to die, so they donated everything.”

Blink. Blink-blink. The smile never left her face. Her silence seemed like a call for more information.

“They thought they were being nice,” I said, feeling like I had to cover for them. “My dad’s law firm handled the estate pro bono because there was a lot of debt from my mom setting up her dental practice. And . . . mistakes were made.”

“I see,” Ms. O’Neil said.

“There are a few boxes,” I admitted, not wanting to seem melodramatic. “Mostly paperwork. It can stay in storage.”

I turned away to inspect the pajamas, noting that the print on the polyester fabric was hot-pink lipstick kisses and that the front read #TOTESFAB. I handed them back to her and was on the verge of passing the bunny back, too, when I decided to stuff it into my backpack instead.

Ms. O’Neil tossed the pajamas onto the table in the corner and held the door open for me.