His hair had fallen out during his last chemo treatment and had regrown in straggling clumps like a clown wig. His arms and legs were sticks, skin stretched over tendon, muscle and bone without any cushioning, and his hands were bent into claws, an effect accentuated by his long, yellow fingernails which he refused to allow anyone to cut. He was covered with bruises. The first time Bill saw them he had screamed at Randy that someone was hurting Waldo. Randy explained that Waldo’s body had stopped making the cells that helped his blood clot, so that the slightest bang or bump left a dark mark. The condition had inflamed his abdominal organs and doctors had had to remove his spleen and parts of his stomach and liver. Now he was retaining fluids and his belly was distended and bloated. His eyes had been attacked by a virus called cytomegalovirus leaving him nearly blind. He had survived two rounds of pneumocystis pneumonia, the infection that had killed Pete, and he was attached to an oxygen tube as well as a morphine drip and another drip that fed him now that he could no longer digest solid food. A catheter carried off his piss. His face could have been that of a mummy unwrapped after centuries in the crypt, dark and skeletal and alien.

“Waldo? It’s Bill.”

The cadaverous head turned an inch toward him and made a croaking noise.

Bill bent over the bed, holding his breath against the stink, and said, “What did you say?”

He made the same croak but in three distinct phrases. “They… were… right.”

Bill sat down. In the corner of the room, Jeopardy played on the TV. The smiling host interviewed the nervous contestants. The sounds of the street, faint but lively, filtered through the heavy windows. Sunlight poured into the room. On the bed stand was a vase filled with sunflowers and irises that Mrs. Donohue had left on her last visit. She and Bill were Waldo’s most faithful visitors; other friends came or didn’t come as time and temperament allowed. An orderly pushed a trolley past the door. The world proceeded apace, which for Bill seemed the most unbelievable part of this horror, because inside his head, he was screaming.

“They were right about what?”

Waldo closed his eyes and was still for such a long time Bill thought he had drifted off but then he grabbed Bill’s wrist with a claw-like hand.

“About… us… Us fags… God… hates… us.” He released Bill’s wrist and turned his head to him. “Look… at… me… You’re… next… God… hates us.”

Twenty-two minutes later, he was dead.