Finally the nurse arrives, a large, dark black woman whose white dress is a little too tight, a little too short for Ruth’s tastes. She wonders why such a stout woman with legs that big would want to walk around in such a tight frock. But most importantly she feels relief.

“You all scuse us.” The nurse pulls the curtain in a little white square from the wall out around the bed and back into the wall. Ruth listens but hears no struggle, no scream of pain; and quickly, quietly the incessant banter of the woman dwindles, like the sound of a train leaving town.

“. . . and I expect to see my grandchildren for Christmas. Yes, I do. Fix them a good dinner. Breakfast, too. Breakfast. Eggs. Good. Sausage. Smoked ham. Eggs. And sausage, and eggs, and ham. Smoked ham. Smoked and eggs . . . eggs . . . eggs . . .”

Ruth looks out the window over the healthy emerald lawn and remembers that it is December, not July, and it is cold outside.

She sighs.