The last time Kori touched me, the last words I heard her speak. “Take care of her, Becks. Get my kitten home okay.”

I took a deep breath and fought back the urge to assume the fetal position on my front stoop.

I’d started having serious doubts about my own mental health after Mom’s computer smashing and crazy spewing. Since we were related, this very well could’ve been the start of my crazy train’s downhill coast into Nutsville Junction, population 2.

I slipped the key in and turned.

All my plans for seclusion and retreat were squelched. “How ‘bout some of my famous grilled cheesies?”

Ah, sweet ninety-five-year-old Mrs. Patterson in a T-shirt with a hand drawn on each low-slung breast, above which read: I’M OLD, BUT I FEEL GOOD. FEEL FOR YOURSELF.

Nutsville Junction, population 3.

I couldn’t very well crawl under the covers with her there.

“Grilled cheese sounds great. What’s up?”

“Well, the devil has his hands full now. Martha Blackwell finally passed on. Lester isn’t looking too good either.” Ah, to be so blasé about death. Those were the days.

I tried to imagine what it must be like for Mrs. Patterson to have friends passing on with the kind of frequency they did at Whispering Aspens. I couldn’t. I couldn’t lose the image of the wreck. I saw it with nearly every blink of my eyes, like the zap-zap-zap of an assault rifle.

“Is Lester the one you play Texas hold ‘em with?” I asked in an effort to shake the ever-present image of the crash from my mind.

“No, no, that’s Leslie. Lester’s Martha Blackwell’s cat.”

Right, a man named Leslie and a cat named Lester. Everything normal at the old folks’ home.

“Well, my cat now, I guess. Damn beast doesn’t know what to do without that old bat squashing him with her cane.”

“So how many cats does that make now?”

“Oh, gosh. Ten, I guess.”

That was it? I could’ve sworn she was up to seventy.

“Are the other cats playing nice? Sharing their kibble?”

“Oh well, you know, there’s hollerin’ and hissin’. Nothing gettin’ the broom out doesn’t resolve.”

“That’s good. Trivial Pursuit before dinner?”

She never had to be asked twice, and was already setting up the board. I went to the kitchen and poured us each a glass of Diet Coke, then returned to the table. For the first time in a long time, I was thankful for her company. She was the only person who’d understand what I was going through without all the pity. She might’ve even slapped me on the back and said, “First one’s always the hardest.” Or hug me and say, “You’ll never get over it, so stop trying.”

“So, were you and Martha close?”

“Oh, as close as any, I suppose.”

“Well, you took her cat in.”