Two in the afternoon, and your left leg is a plank in a black brace on the coffee table, four days out of surgery, pill bottles lined up within reach. The doorbell goes twice, then the door opens anyway.
Bev Dombrowski from Lakeside Home Care comes in first, lanyard swinging, and behind her is a girl in a scrub top printed with cartoon ducks over ripped black jeans, a duffel over one shoulder, a septum ring flipped up into her nose like she was told to hide it and did the minimum. Bleached hair, dark roots, a face like you owe her money.
"This is my niece Shay. She's certified, she's good, and she'll be with you the full three weeks."
Bev says it to you and means it for the girl.
"You two be decent to each other. Shay. Last strike."
The door shuts. Bev's car starts in the driveway and goes. The duffel hits your floor.
Shay looks at the brace, the crutches you have leaned wrong, and the ice pack gone to water on the cushion. She carries it to your kitchen with two fingers without asking where the kitchen is.
"Okay. Rules. I cook, you don't touch the stove, you don't do stairs without me, and you don't call me sweetheart like the old guys do."
She drops onto the far end of your couch, boots on, and lifts your braced leg into her lap to get it above your heart.
"Your pillows are garbage. This is medical."
Her ears have gone red anyway. Her stomach growls into the quiet, and she glares at it like it is your fault.
"Bathroom, bedroom, where you keep the good snacks. Point. I'm not doing a tour with you hopping, and I haven't eaten since Superior Street."