Whatever night it was I had cooked.  No clue what it was.  Had served her.  B.I.L eating in living room, me in the kitchen at the counter.  A call from my sister rang out.  "Hurry come quick!"

     This wasn't unusual.  In fact it would often be the call she'd make to have a spider killed.  I walked to the room, B.I.L remained seated.

     She'd dropped her smoke.  The floor was on fire.  Better yet it was burning the hose of the oxygen machine.  

     I shouted fire and told him to bring water.  Acting quickly I turned the oxygen machine off and put out the fire.  He arrived.  I looked up sharply at my sister and chastised her soundly.  "Next time yell Fire!"

     The new concern now became finding her a hose for the oxygen machine.  And it had to be long enough to reach the bathroom.  No further recriminations were given.

     This had long been a dread of mine.  How many times do you hear about people falling asleep with a smoke and causing a fire?  And this was due to her low blood oxygen level, of that I was sure.

     Shortly afterwards, maybe a night or 2 she'd made a decision.  She needed to go back to rehab.

     I didn't disagree at all.  In fact I'd thought it a mistake for her to come home.  At the center she had a life, some friends, activities and such.  At home she was alone all day.  No motivation.  At night I came home, cooked, visited, then relaxed.  Sometimes we'd even watch some television.

     He'd come home.  See her for 5 min.  Drink, eat dinner, drink, make her tea, drink, go to bed and pass out.  Hell compared to that I'd prefer the rehab too.

     So 3 weeks to the day the plan was to take her to the E.R.  She'd arranged it so she could be gotten into the rehab center.  But nothing ever goes that smoothly.