it's late afternoon, and you're standing in your hot driveway, shaking a piece of gravel out of your sneaker. earlier today, you visited your mother in the nursing home, where she told you for the twentieth time how badly she wants a motorised wheelchair, regardless of the what the nurses say. you know the administration won't let her have one. imagine, the head nurse explained to you on the phone, if the home was full of clumsy elderly people zipping around as though in dodgem cars. it would be mayhem, she assured you; and you, of course, agreed - as any practical person would - although secretly you rather liked the idea. when she first came here, your mother was almost thrown out for angrily twisting a nurse's nipple with her left hand, the hand that still moved. the nurse went home in tears and the staff took to calling her 'the witch'. so you spoon some apple into her gummy mouth, light her a cigarette, and ash your own into a pot plant as she tells you how much she hates the way her room-mate hogs the television, and why this is all your fault.