She lives in the basement of her brother's house, in a makeshift room separated from storage by some hanging sheets. There's a small bed in her corner, and a dresser, a dirty mirror stands against a wall, clothes piled high.
"I live like an animal, wit the bugs and the dirt," she explains. "Look at dis place, the dust is on everyting, I cannot breathe."
She takes a puff from her inhaler to emphasize her claims, then coughs.
"But you can't beat your nieces."
"But it's your brother's house."
"He doin the right ting, but he can't always be here, he has to work."
This wasn't our first visit here. A good man tried to help his sister who had been living in and out of homeless shelters in New York City. She is non-compliant with her medications, bi-polar and delusional. She preaches, once on a curbside in Brooklyn, now in a basement in Providence. Nobody listened to her there, now nobody is listening here.
Three teenaged girls stood off to the side as we walked their "auntie" past them and three or four police officers who had been called to keep the peace.
"God be watchin you sinners!"
"Bye, Auntie," said the youngest as the others looked into their IPhones. One of the girls had a swollen face, all three had been crying.
She preached all the way to the hospital. I wasn't listening either.