He came back. We went to visit his parents. He was spackling a wall with his father when he fell down. We called an ambulance, took him to the hospital—he’d received a fatal dose of leukocytes. He returned with one thought in his mind: “I’m dying.” He became quiet. I tried to convince him it wasn’t true. I begged him. He wouldn’t believe me. Then I gave him a daughter, so he’d believe me. I’d wake up in the morning, look at him: how am I going to make it by myself? You shouldn’t think a lot about death. I chased the thoughts away. If I’d known he’d get sick I’d have closed all the doors, I’d
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