On the afternoon of February 25, I set Dad up to watch TV while Linda, Jodie, and I begin to gather all the dangerous objects in the house—medicines, sharp knives, sharp tools, razors and scissors, drain cleaners and other toxic chemicals, and rope or anything that could be used as rope—and hide them in a metal box that will go in the attic. We start in the utility room with the tools, then add my pocket knife and Grandpa Eddie’s fishing knife, and then we move on to the bathroom cabinet. The pills Dr. Gupta prescribed in the fall were flushed long ago, but Jodie does the same with the white placebo sleeping pills. In the kitchen, we disagree about which utensils are dull enough to be kept downstairs for Mom to use in everyday cooking. Linda is standing by the utensil drawer with a carrot peeler and eight serrated table knives, I am testing the cheese slicer, and Jodie is holding the box and padlock. This is the way we look when Mom finds us and decides to go back to the doctor.