She plunks a plastic bag on top of it and starts pulling out small boxes and tubes of cream. “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, taking another sip. “Taking care of you,” she mumbles, unboxing a bottle of pills with jerky movements. “Why?” “Because you’re too dumb to take care of yourself. I went and bought some stuff at the pharmacy across the parking lot so we can try to patch you up.”
