The resident refuses to keep his shirt on but can’t take it off himself. It’s halfway, and he won’t stop screaming for help. It’s a nightly ritual. He’s somewhere else, reciting an address. In his mind, he’s on the phone with the police, his brother on the floor. He tries to stand, though wheelchair-bound. I help with the shirt and offer a blue raspberry Dum-Dum. He doesn’t understand. Neither do I. I crouch to his level, trying to comfort him. He grabs my arms to keep me there. Concave chest. Tissue-paper skin. “Help,” he pleads. I stay until I can’t.
Molly Lindsey is a Los Angeles-based writer. Instagram: @mlindz