The burden is shifted, somehow, with that momentary release of hysteria. In his cardigan sweater and open-collared shirt, Kevorkian has the amiable and authoritarian air of a retired general. He is clearly the center of the group, in control, his voice resonant and welcoming as he introduces himself and Dr. Georges Reding—a psychiatrist who, along with Neal, will remain in the background as witness and assistant.

Wayne half carries Cheri into the living room, where plastic chairs have been arranged in a semicircle, one of them draped with a blanket to make it more comfortable. Katy sits next to her mother; Sarah sits at their feet. Whatever numbness had gotten them all through the long ride from Iowa is wearing off. The house feels temporary, like an office set up in a trailer, and the men seem both hearty and furtive, like Bible salesmen.

Cheri is awake now, unintimidated. These men are familiar to her; she understands the dynamics of idealism, the personality traits of a certain kind of fanaticism. She rallies, gives a coherent account of her medical condition. They want to ascertain that this is her decision.

“Yes, mine,” she says clearly. She holds her oxygen tube out like the stem of a wineglass and gathers herself before speaking again. “I have only forty-five minutes of oxygen left.”

“We have time,” Dr. Kevorkian says kindly. “Don’t worry.”

Katy and Sarah stare at each other, wide-eyed and trembling. Forty-five minutes is fifteen times three. Everything is welling up, faster than they can absorb it.

Dr. Kevorkian speaks to all of them, describing what he calls a patholytic procedure, the intravenous injection of a combination of drugs that will make her go to sleep, relax her respirations, and stop her heart. Cheri listens carefully, nodding, and then signs her name over and over, Cheri Tremble, until she’s hearing it inside her head like a chant.

Linda and Wayne must sign papers as well, and they are told to leave the state via the most direct route possible. It’s all printed out for them: the coroner, the funeral home, what to do and when.

Cheri hands her driver’s license to Kevorkian for identification of the body, then gives her billfold, address book, and glasses to Sarah.

It’s time.

And now the girls are dissolving, wailing, saying their goodbyes in a chaos of hands, mouths, faces, hair, tears. At one point or another, both are in Cheri’s lap, holding on to her, crying so violently and so desperately that everyone is trying to shush them. They’re inconsolable; every time they pull themselves away and start toward the door, they turn back to their mother. Cheri is trying to soothe them, kissing foreheads, whispering. Her tank now says thirty-two minutes.