His eyes are closed again and his breathing has become very deep. Cheyne-stoking? Not yet, it’s still regular. “I’ll talk to you out loud at the end of every day, just like I’m doing now. I’ll call you to come back here for a while. And I know you’ll come, just like I know you’ll be safe. You’ll be safe from now on. No pain.” I kiss him. “Chip?”

Nothing.

Very slowly, I take my hand from his. Then I reach into my pocket, take out the baggie and pour several yellow capsules into my hand, then into my mouth. Hurry. They are somewhat bitter tasting. I sit up slowly, careful not to shake the bed, and reach for the tea. I put the cup up to my lips, take in some liquid, and hold everything in my mouth for a long moment. And then, quietly weeping, I spit it all back into the cup.

I lie back down and pull Chip close to me, say his name. He murmurs something I don’t understand, and then he doesn’t speak again. I hold him tightly until his breathing stops. It takes a lifetime. It takes one half of one second. Half an hour, maybe; a day or two.

I lay my hand on his chest, then put two fingers to his carotid artery. Nothing. Call a code, some old part of my brain says. I kiss his cheek, growing cold already, and then I go downstairs. I sit by the phone for some time, one of my hands holding the other, and then I make the call.

I don’t move at all until I hear the cab pull into my driveway. I don’t think. But when I let DeWitt in and he wraps his skinny arms around me, I finally let loose. “That’s right,” he says. “That’s the way. Aw, baby, here, here; I got you right here.”

I sob and sob and sob until my ribs hurt, my back. But I am not thinking about what you might expect. I am not thinking about Chip at all.

I once took care of a fifty-nine-year-old man who had just moved into a tiny apartment after having been homeless and sleeping on grates for six years. The first time I visited him, I saw a nest of blankets and sheets and pillows in the corner. “Are you sleeping on the floor?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He laughed, embarrassed.

“Why?”

He scratched his head, then smoothed down the few strands he still had left up there. “Well, that bed they give me is real nice. But I can’t sleep in it. Only way I can get any shut-eye is to sleep on the floor.”

“I see.”