I heard a stoned hippie say once that a complete body transformation is possible after seven years. We shed dead cells, can repair or erode tissues along with general health and well-being. After seven years it is possible to be a whole new person. Imagine that. But seven years seems like a long time. I might not be alive to experience this new me.

Sleep eludes me after coming up with this impressive list. I flip through one of Leo’s old magazines and read about cosmetic solutions for the dark circles. In the bathroom mirror I see a stranger in need of some eye cream staring back at me. This face could scare away any teenager, the hollows beneath my eyes more like shadowy pits, but I don’t linger on that thought. I’d caught a glimpse of the price of the cream in the magazine, and there’s no way I can afford to do anything about the circles just yet, maybe ever.

Most of the things on the list are unimportant in the grander scheme of things, and I can always start doing something about my strength. My soul is what it is, and there’s nothing to help it. As to my heart and the trouble I’m in, that’s another story. But not one for tonight.

I’ve been avoiding the envelope Seb has left for me, but now there’s nothing else to do but open it. He has left me a copy of the manuscript for his memoirs and nine thousand, four hundred, and eighty-seven dollars in cash. The manuscript I put aside because I can’t bring myself to read it. The money I keep handy.

I think Seb must have known me better than anybody on the planet. The year I spent looking after him coated our bond in steel. I watched him deteriorate, took him to his appointments, picked up his meds, helped him with his syndicated news blog and the freelance assignments that came his way—along with the research and organization of the memoirs. He gave me the money from the blog and assignments. And I guess he stashed some extra as well.

If it had been officially bequeathed, the lawyer wouldn’t have been able to find me or I might have even been required to declare it on my taxes, if I ever decided to file them. Seb must have known that. He was likely also aware how far I can stretch money like that. Certainly long enough until I can figure something else out. It isn’t a fortune, but it’s enough to buy me some time. For what, though? He didn’t know about the trouble I’ve found myself in when he left it for me, but he must have sensed it. That I might need some cash to tide me over.

I don’t deserve this kindness.