Insentient

This morning, Annie tumbles from the car and onto the driveway.   I watch from behind the curtains as Mother and Father trudge behind, dragging duffles full of god-knows-what (sweatshirts, I figure, and a toothbrush, and gallons and jars of bitter white pills and injections).   "Daddy – keys!" she cries, and his mouth stretches, baring teeth (he smiles, he thinks) as he tosses a jingling cluster.   The latch clacks, and Annie comes home.   I hover in the kitchen – I never know what to say.   She spots me before even hanging up her jacket and kneels.   "C'mere, mutt," like she expects me to pretend I'm happy to see her ei