I walked down the hallway toward the bathroom, and a pungent smell in the air hit me. It was a mix of urine and other body smells, which enveloped me as I closed the bathroom door. I looked down and saw that the trash was full of used adult diapers. Her bathtub was grimy and housed a slumped mop that looked like it hadn’t been moved in weeks. I leaned down and pulled the bag out of the trash and tied it up, upset that her nurse wasn’t taking better care of her. I left the bag on the floor while I peed, the toilet bowl filthy with brown specks around the rim. I was angry with myself for humiliating her by needing to go to the bathroom. I was worried she would say something to me that would make us both feel awkward, so I quietly went outside and avoided going anywhere near where she was lying down.

I took the bag outside and threw it in the trash next to her house. Nathan came up behind me and said, “I see what you mean about her.”

“I didn’t tell her you were handsome,” I said.

“It’s okay if you did.”

We were staring at the flower-covered hills beyond Daphne’s house, and Nathan was trying to call the main office to see if we had enough pills. She had originally requested the hood, and her change of heart meant we had to scramble to stay close to her schedule. I stared at the one large vein curving around Nathan’s forearm; his arm muscles weren’t oversized, but somehow they all fit into a not-so-slight package. We went back inside and told Daphne it would take up to ten days to collect all the Seconal. She did not say no to the timing or try to cancel. Instead, she took my hand and said, “Great.” She looked around her bedroom. “I need you to do something else for me.”

“Whatever you need,” I said.

“I bought pants and a jacket from Ann Taylor, and I need you to send them back for me.”

“What?”

“I don’t know why I bought them. I don’t need them. Take a look, maybe you want them for yourself.”

She motioned toward a shipping bag, and I went and pulled the items out.

“I like this jacket,” I said.

“Do you want it?”

It was a knit jacket that looked like the kind of thing marketed to mature women—a Chanel knockoff. I shook my head no.

“Do you think I should wear it to my funeral?”

“Like, in the casket?”

“I won’t need that jacket in heaven.”

“It’s tasteful,” I said, holding it up. The color suited her, and I could tell she was considering it.

“Just put it in the mail. I already filled out the return slip.”