She’d been working her way alphabetically through her collection because she had no desire to make a decision about what to watch next. The knock at the door would have startled her if she’d still been capable of that kind of emotional response. Throwing off the blanket, she hobbled to the door, legs stiff from disuse. As she moved, her garage door opened on the other side of the house. Her mother smiled as she stormed the house carrying a corrugated plastic post office tub. “You know, right after I got off the phone with you, we decided we should just run these things up and collect your taxes so you can get your refund.” Her mother’s practiced gaze took in the mostly empty peanut butter jar with a spoon sticking out of it on the coffee table surrounded by an assortment of mugs and glasses; the pile of DVDs scattered on the floor in front of the television; the blanket on the floor; the dead hearth. Her father walked out of the hall behind Cass.
