Finn drives around for hours, not knowing where to go. She stops at McDonald’s on Cumberland and gets a milkshake and a cheeseburger, then eats it parked at the marina watching the kids in the skatepark, the old people walking their dogs, the gulls shitting on the statues. Then she drives to County Park to buy a bottle of bourbon at an LCBO where no one will recognize her, bringing it back to the same McDonald’s and drinking half of it while sitting in a stall, listening to two drunk teenaged girls talk about whether or not they are technically still virgins if they let a guy come in their mouth. When the girls leave she orders another cheeseburger, which she eats in the car in the parking lot in thirty seconds, stuffing the wrapper into Nicki’s glove compartment. Then, because nothing else she’s done tonight makes any sense in the slightest, she goes back into the restaurant and orders a third cheeseburger. The kid behind the counter doesn’t miss a beat.

“Are you sure you want just one?” he asks as he punches up her order.

“Just give me the cheeseburger,” Finn says.

When she’s finished, she drives to the hospital. It’s late, and the only remnant of the earlier media circus is a lone cameraman perched on a bench outside the gift shop, staring at his phone. He doesn’t even notice as Finn slinks past him, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Visiting hours are over, but no one stops her as she wanders, somewhat drunk, down the hall to her mother’s room. Once inside, she keeps her eyes fixed on the wall somewhere between the bed and the ceiling. “Hi, Mom,” she says, focusing intently on a spot of chipped paint. “I’m home.”

It’s not until she crosses the room and is next to the bed that Finn finally allows herself to look at her mother. Her hair is now completely grey where once there were merely silvery threads woven through her blond curls. Tentatively, Finn leans down and kisses Kate’s cheek, feeling how waxy her skin has become, how dry her hand is when she holds it. It’s as though she’s aged thirty years since Finn last saw her. There is no warning label for aging, nothing to prepare you for how much smaller and frailer everything is going to appear when you come home. Though if her mother were awake, she might think the same thing about Finn – that her lovely daughter is now on the cusp of decay. Although Finn is sure the fact that she hasn’t washed her face in two days isn’t helping.