87.

Today rain only threatens. The newspaper says it will come later. Speckles on the glass: ghosts of old dirt or the precursor of things to come, it’s hard to say.

Nurse I’m sick. Take my temperature. Intubate me Nurse. Nurse, feel my heart. Right here. Is it beating? How strong is the pulse, Nurse? How much time do I have left?

Nurse take me to your kind glass-walled condo. Carry me inside, in your strong arms. Stagger under my weight. I need looking after, like a baby. I picked you for a reason. Can’t you see I’m sick, can’t you see what’s wrong with me? Can’t you tell? Bring the cart. Don’t send for the technician. I need you.

Is there anything you need, Nurse asks, passing the bed where she lies. The tall bed on its risers, in the tiny room. The chocolate comforter. Anything I can get you.

No. I’m fine, she says, and turns her face, resolute, to the wall.