You always think that if you gather round and really concentrate, the person on the bed will let go. We were all there, you imagine yourself saying to friends. And in an odd way, it was sort of beautiful. So you become solemn and silently sit, watching the chest unsteadily rise and fall. You look at the hands as they occasionally stir, doing some imaginary last-minute busywork. The oxygen tube slips, and though you think of readjusting it, you don’t, because, well, it has snot on it. Better to save it for an aide, you tell yourself. After twenty or so minutes your sister Gretchen steps
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