Helena’s POV The stench hit me the moment I opened the bedroom door for the fourth time that day. Mrs. Whitmore had messed herself again. The sheets were soaked through with poo, yellow and brown spreading across the mattress in dark, wet patches. Her thin, wrinkled body lay twisted in the mess, eyes cloudy and unfocused, mouth working in those same low, frustrated sounds that never quite became words. The air is suffocating, the sour smell of urine and feces. It clung to the curtains, the wallpaper, my hair, everywhere. I stood in the doorway for a long second, one hand pressed over my nose, and felt the familiar wave of nausea rise in my throat. I swallowed it down. Gloves. Towels. Basin of warm water. Plastic bag for the worst of it. The same routine I had done every single day, sometimes five, six times, since the nurse wheeled me out of the hospital and Liena drove away with my son. I stripped the linens first, rolling the wet fabric carefully so nothing dripped onto the
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