“What?” she says into the dark.

It’s left up to her to set the date; Kevorkian is flexible. It’s October now, and Cheri explains that she wants to make it through Christmas.

“Oh, I hope much longer,” he says.

This touches her deeply for some reason, his empathetic response, his hope that she can remain alive as long as possible. He doesn’t even know her! His voice is soothing over the telephone, and kind. More like a pastor than a doctor, really, but the medical questions he asks are sharply intelligent. For the first time Cheri is able to describe the pain in unminimizing terms. The relief of this causes tears to course down her cheeks, although her voice remains steady and businesslike.

She’s to contact Neal, his assistant, when she has a date. Neal will give her directions on what to do then. For now, just try to be comfortable, get what she can out of her days, settle her affairs. And tell only the people who must know.

Kate, Sarah, Linda, Wayne.

She dresses as herself for Halloween—starkly thin, the extraneous flesh chiseled from her face, neck, wrists—and doles out chocolate bars to a sporadic procession of Disney characters and unraveling mummies. One boy with fangs and a plunging widow’s peak hauls his sister up onto the porch, a tiny blonde in a Pocahontas outfit. She holds her bag open distractedly, mask atop her head, peering past Cheri into the living room.

“The lady who lived here before died,” she says. “And we’ve got her parakeet.”

Her brother glances up at Cheri and then quickly away. “She’s lying,” he says apologetically, dragging the little girl off the porch and into the darkness. The dog follows them for a moment and then materializes again in the porch light, wagging her tail at the bowl of candy.

Ursa will go with Sarah, and the cats probably with Linda, unless Katy speaks up. This house to her mother, who paid for it. She spends the next week sorting through her belongings, musing, then composes a will and places it in the top drawer of her dresser. To the Petersons she writes:

Linda, please take my gardening hat, the one I wore at Telluride. Wayne, you could use a good corkscrew. I’m fond of my brass one, made in Italy (at least I think it’s brass). I’ve had it about seventeen years. Brandice, help yourself to your favorite sweater, and Kailee, to your favorite piece of jewelry. Schuyler, take my fishing pole and catch some big ones for me, okay? TJ can have my assistant conductor hat pin from when I worked on the trains in New York City. It should be where this will is.

Her daughters, of course, are more difficult. The lists have to be weighed, items shifted back and forth until a precarious balance is achieved:

Sarah, I’d like for you to have my jade necklace, silver tea set, darkroom equipment, camping stuff, crystal vase, my books, and my exercise bike. Also the family heirloom silver and brass curios and the picture of McGregor and the blanket from Mexico.