“Let’s do a double-bacon cheeseburger, medium, with avocado, ketchup, lettuce, and tomato. Oh, and a salted caramel shake, too. That would be great!” I smiled up at her.

She clicked her tongue. “You sure about that last one? I’m pretty sure Cam likes chocolate fudge shakes.”

“Oh, he does,” I assured her. “That’s for me. I have to stock up on my calories so I can burn them off later, right?”

“Right.” She spun and left.

“And the case?” Pat asked, clearly making an effort.

“Not sure. Art is pretty adamant about getting the DNR.” I started in on my food.

“On the days he’s lucid?” Pat doctored his own burger with mustard, but his tone told me he’d definitely been hanging out at the barbershop.

“Yes, Pat. On the days he’s lucid. He called Cam and asked for his help, which is the whole reason Cam moved back. Plus, after his hospitalization, he’s pretty determined.”

Pat chewed slowly and nodded.

“He even went with Walt to get a DNR tattoo across his chest,” Thea added. “Xander flipped his lid.”

Pat seemed to mull it over. “He did say something about it not being legally recognized,” he admitted. “That it was more his dad having a hard time coping with ending up on that ventilator than actually wanting the DNR.”

“Trust me, babe. If a man gets that tattooed on his chest, he’s serious.” Thea popped a fry into her mouth and nodded.

“But still, Xander’s been taking care of him for years. This whole mess feels like Cam wants…” Pat sighed at his burger. “I can’t even say it.”

“Wants what?” I prompted.

“Wants his dad to die,” he finished in a whisper. “Everyone knows they don’t get along, and it just feels…wrong. He’s only fifty-eight.”

Holy crap, this was what we were up against. Alba seriously thought Cam just wanted to get rid of Arthur because they didn’t like each other?

“You’re right. Art’s only fifty-eight, Pat. That’s only thirty years older than we are right now, and he’s asking to determine what happens to his own body. He’s asking Cam to go against everyone in this town, including his own brother, because he wants a say in whether or not he ends up strapped to a hospital bed on a ventilator again. And if he didn’t have Alzheimer’s, no one would think twice about what he’s asking. You can get a DNR today if you want one, but he can’t, because fifty percent of the time he can’t depend on his brain. So what, the other days—when he can—those don’t matter?”

“They should,” he muttered.