On a warm afternoon in late September, I sat in a hospital room wondering whether it would be the worst day of my life. The window was open and a light breeze stirred the curtains. Every time the nurse entered the room to remind me of the time she would point to the window and ask if I preferred it closed. It is funny what you remember; the odd details that stick with you for no good reason.
Tommy lay in bed, his face swathed in bandages. He never woke or stirred while I was there and I never spoke to him or told jokes like they do in the movies. The silence felt appropriate, punctuated only by his labored breathing and the bleeping of the monitor. Had I really come to watch him die, like they said? Maybe the rumor mill at Breckenridge had it right for once. I couldn’t say why I was there
