Upon waking, I brush my teeth, wash my face, cut my finger nails, pluck a few stray eyebrows hairs, take a shower. Quickly glance at the email that has come in overnight, and at Facebook and Twitter—new spaces of maintenance.

Do I stand in darkness or in light? Do I speak or am I silent? When I do speak, how are my words received? Where does my power and privilege lie?

“Is Francis here?” Dora asked in a trembling voice. “The idea of being back here, in London, in this apartment, before him in any form was unthinkable even two weeks ago. I even reproached him in my dreams for not having me back sooner. It is a good deal more terrifying than I can explain, for all of its mundane routine.”

Mrs. Micawbers took a long pull at her punch. “I’m not ready to die. Sometimes, I’ve thought that I would like to die at home. Seeing you, my child, puts a little strength back in these old bones. You give energy to a sour and tried friend.”

The sun beamed down from a cloudless sky and temperatures sometimes rose into the mid-60s. Dora said to herself, “What surprises them wouldn’t surprise me,” and that gave her an outside chance, anyway.

I could feel the pressure of it all falling on my neck, my back, my ribs. For the moment it was too much, and I thought about crying out. This association with our brother Francis, little by little, was crushing for me, when for her it meant little.

“Making love is hardly material,” she said. Aside from any conceivable motive of affectionate devotion…I thought as she rambled on. Finally the interrogation was complete. It had been several weeks and I had waited her out.

Well then, in this mysterious little difficulty, we were stuck in quest of an opinion. What did I really know? Where were we really?