When Bill arrived at the hospital the next evening, Waldo was arguing with a nurse who wanted him to wear a gown, gloves and a mask before she would allow him to visit Pete. His thick neck was as red as his hair and in a voice quivering with rage, he said, “I’m not going see my sick friend dressed like he was a fucking space alien!”

“Those are the rules,” she replied curtly. “He may be infectious.”

Bill came to the desk. “He has cancer,” he said calmly. “Since when is cancer infectious?”

She turned her attention to him. “The KS is a symptom of a problem with his immune system and we don’t know what caused it or how it’s spread.”

“His immune system? What is that?”

“When we start to get sick, the body uses its natural defenses to fight off the sickness, whether it’s a virus or bacteria or a parasite. That’s the immune system. Your friend caught something that knocked his out. If you catch whatever it is, the same thing could happen to you and you’d get all kinds of sick.” She turned to Waldo. “That’s why you have to protect yourself.”

“Come on, Waldo. I’m sure Pete wouldn’t want us to catch it.”

Waldo hissed, “Traitor,” but he put on the gear.

The tip of Pete’s nose was covered with a round purple blister, like a rubber clown’s nose, and might have been comic except that the left side of his face was nearly obliterated by other puffy purple welts. Looking at him, it was all Bill could do not to run into the bathroom and throw up. Pete’s loose hospital gown showed smaller welts descending from his neck to his breastbone. He gripped the hospital bed railings with shrunken arms and his legs stuck out from beneath the thin hospital sheet like matchsticks. He looked half the man he had been when Bill had last seen him sauntering down the dim corridors of the Club Baths, a skimpy towel tied around his waist.

“Hey, boys.” His weak smile revealed prominent gums, also marked with lesions. “Thanks for coming to see me.”

Waldo pulled a chair up to the side of the bed, removed his gloves, lowered the face mask and laced his fingers into Pete’s.

“I gotta be honest, girl,” he said. “You ain’t looking your best.”

Pete’s laugh ended in a spittle-flinging coughing jag. Bill recoiled and watched fearfully as Waldo wiped Pete’s spit from his face.

“Yeah, I seen better days,” Pete said, when the coughing ended.

“What do the doctors say?” Bill asked, still standing well away from the bed.

“They say I’m sick, baby, and then they scratch their heads.”

“But they’re giving you medicine or something, aren’t they?”