CHERI TREMBLE IS IN THE DETROIT AREA. SHE WAS NOT PERMITTED TO REGISTER AT THE QUALITY INN…WE HAVE TRIED TO REACH NEAL A NUMBER OF TIMES WITHOUT SUCCESS AND WE ONLY HAVE ONE SMALL TANK OF O2 LEFT…WE ARE FAXING THIS FROM OFFICE DEPOT IN BLOOMFIELD.

The store is warm and well lit; a man stands in line near them holding a wastebasket and a package of Bic pens. The boy at the copy counter takes their fax and sends it without comment, then lingers nearby, casting sidelong glances at Katy. A few feet away, down the office-equipment aisle, a young couple in matching ski jackets feed a piece of paper into a shredder and watch as it emerges in long, graceful strands.

The phone rings and a fax begins chugging through.

Thank God, Linda whispers.

Sarah and Kate stand next to the car in twilight, smoking and waiting for Neal, who is on his way. The drizzle stops momentarily and one by one, the parking-lot floodlights buzz to life, turning everything green. Inside the van, just visible through the smoky glass, Cheri is sitting once again with head in hands.

“This is fun,” Katy says.

“Yeah,” Sarah answers.

They can hardly look at each other, faces bathed in the alien light. Each knows what the other is feeling, being so urgently compelled toward something they are profoundly and instinctively opposed to. Not Kevorkian, exactly, but the simple fact of Cheri’s death. Neither of them has fully absorbed the fact that if all goes as planned, she will cease to exist this evening. This evening! They scan the faces in the cars that glide past, easing into and out of parking spaces, people on their way to buy envelopes. Before anyone has a chance to get worried, a car pulls up, and a large man jumps out and hugs them. Neal. They’re to follow him to Kevorkian’s house.

They wind through an affluent neighborhood, past suburban castles with iron gates and leafless, glowering trees; inside the van the only sound in the long interval between the windshield wipers is the wheeze of oxygen moving through the tubing. It’s trash day in this neighborhood, garbage cans materializing and dematerializing in the thin steam that rises from the streets. They follow Neal up the driveway of an unassuming ranch house tucked among the sprawling mansions. Suddenly, a man is framed in their headlights, peeking out from the attached garage. Gaunt and sunken-eyed, with a military crew cut and an animated expression, he gestures for them to pull inside and then hops nimbly out of their way.

Jack Kevorkian, as seen on TV.

Relieved and terrified, everyone bursts out laughing, even Cheri.