Exactly, Jer says. Happens to everybody. Even you. Even me. Our mothers, even. I mean, think about it, 89, how old are you? Seventy-five, eighty? Your mother would, of course, be older.

Low over yard comes V of birds.

Geese, says Jer. That sound? Honk.

The honks go deeper, lower as geese fly farther further ​ One geese falls behind Flies funnily faster until back home again in his or her V.

My mother is death? I say.

Ha, no, your mother is not death, 89, Jer says. She is dead. Has died. Is how we might say that one. Sorry. Sorry for your loss. Must be painful. To forget your mother existed, then remember she existed, then right away find out she’s all of a sudden dead? Ouch. I thought I had it bad, when I knew all along my mom existed and then she died. But, sadly, this is the type of painful thing that occurs when a person gets a subpar Scrape.

Level with me, I say.

Just did, says Jer.

Again, I say.

We’re crazy tight on time, 89, Jer says.

How did I get here? I say.

Back door swings open Shape of light runs out Lightshape To Jer Jer’s shoes Which light up With light.

Glimm’s here, says Kennedy B., leaning out of door. He needs help. With the portable. My back is shit and Meg’s back is shit. So.

Kennedy B. goes back in, door swings shut.

Lightshape follows.

Yard dark.

Speaking again, or still, of death, 89? Jer says. Look how weird and slow you walk. How short of breath. Are you entirely well, totally young? We, as a company, paid for a routine physical. Charitably. For all you folks living under that bridge. For lots of folks, living under a number of bridges, across a number of states. Results, for you? Not great. So you said, intelligently, to yourself, Hey, do I want to sicken and die under this bridge over the next ten to eighteen months, in the company of those same creeps who have bullied me and treated me like shit most of my adult life, or go live somewhere safe out west, with killer meals and free meds and a team of young colleagues who’ll watch over me and maybe even put some purpose back into my life?

Blink.

Here’s what the QAPP says, Jer says. In the event of a subpar Scrape, should Associate refuse recommended Rescrape, Associate is to be removed from Program immediately and restored to his or her Locale of Origin, which, for you, brother, means: we ship you back east and plop you under that same old bridge, among the fighting and the smoke and the filth and your same old nasty pals. Which is something I don’t cherish doing to someone I’ve come to respect and, to be frank, even love.

Blink.

Sorry to be so blunt, 89, says Jer. But that’s what friends are for.