I am in my wheelchair and go down this hall/porch. I see two girls (college age) seated at several wheelchair-height desks trying to decide whether to buy them or not. I pull up and say, "They won't be helpful for school. Too cumbersome to carry and fold and besides, they have tables there, but for home they're OK." They thank me and I go on in the house. The kitchen is a mess: dishes in sink, paper sacks on floor. I start to clean out the leather tool pouch on my waist. A huge screwdriver handle I think, "Wow that's big! And then it's a bottle of smooth liquid "power supply" oil. I keep that. Then I open a bottle of assorted pills and pour them out - some big white calcium tablets, some tiny white ones (cortisone) and some bird shaped ones, like in jewelry (broken). Someone knocks on the door. I answer. A man asks, "Is this where they want info on funerals?" I say, "Oh. That was last week. We already had the funeral." He looks incredulous, so I explain. I didn't want the funeral parlor stuff, but I wanted the body to be properly fixed (embalmed). He finally shrugs and leaves. I say to Ellie, "Go get the cat with the ribbon and sign on it and take them off her. We don't need to advertise anymore." I continue to cleanup. I pull out a bottle of whiskey and tell Ellie to put it on top of the fridge or wherever booze (spirits) is kept.