Kelli was diapered and in bed. There was a plate of cold barbecued chicken in front of me that I hadn’t touched, and a plate that had been quickly polished off and wiped clean with a bun in front of Trevor. All that remained were a few graceful swirls of barbecue sauce as if from an artist’s brush across the white of the plate.

“I can’t,” I wheezed, indicating the chicken. I took a few head-clearing breaths and blew my nose as Trevor took away my plate and covered it with the tinfoil he’d been using to keep the chicken warm in the oven while I dealt with my sister’s misery downstairs.

She had some misery downstairs, all right!

Trevor shoved my covered plate into the fridge with a clatter, sounding like he was displacing various other dishes and jars when he did. I was getting on his nerves. I tried to take another deep breath without chuckling. I rubbed my face. I did everything but slap myself.

“Sorry, sorry,” I said to Trevor.

“Goddamnit, Miss Karie! How long you gonna go on like this?”

The question sobered me. “I know . . .”

“Yeah but you don’t know, I don’t think! You just waltz in here after I don’t know how many years, trying to do everything by yourself, taking care of your sister 24/7, trying to orga­nize her life — not to mention your poor mother’s affairs — in under a month — all on your own! You need help, for the love of god!”

“I have help,” I said. “I have you guys at Bestlife. I mean, I have access to all the same resources my mother did, so I should be able to —”

“Rini was doing this her whole g.d. life! She was a trained nurse! Now you tell me: What would you have done today if I wasn’t here?”

“About Kelli? I would’ve — done the same stuff I guess . . .”

“No you wouldn’t’ve, because you wouldn’t have been able to get out to the store to buy that medicine or diapers because you wouldn’t’ve been able to leave her.”

I thought about this. It was true, I couldn’t have just left Kelli moaning on the toilet to drive to the store. But my mother had used a grocery delivery service. That number too was on the fridge, on a list pinned beneath the sombrero magnet. I probably could’ve called it and had the items delivered.

“You can’t do everything on your own!” ranted Trevor. “How long can this continue?”

That was the question, though, wasn’t it. That was where the shit vs. pot dilemma made itself known. I’d chosen neither, deliberately keeping myself in limbo. Even my so-called “decision” that afternoon to call my clients and take an extra month had been a cop-out, I realized. A delay tactic. All I was doing was kicking the can down the road — the can of Kelli’s future. And, let’s face it, my future too. Because our futures were entwined precisely in the way I’d vowed they never would be when I left this house at twenty years of age.