“Ray,” I said suddenly, placing my hand on his forearm, and he looked at me. I wanted to apologize to him. I had thought so badly of him all these years, and here he had been on my side all along. I wanted to confess, to beg forgiveness. I wanted to tell him about the dog. The poor canary. I wanted to share my memory of Rita, those happy days long gone.

But I couldn’t. Instead, I grunt-snorted, choking up again. He seemed to understand. He held my other hand and squeezed it.

When it came time to leave, he folded the shopping bag neatly and placed it under his flanneled arm. “My ray of sunshine,” I said softly, squeezing his hand, and he smiled at me. We both knew it was probably the last time we’d be seeing each other.

As I watched him disappear into the hall, I felt myself already falling away. Sleep enveloped me, the bear clutched to my chest.

Today was a Tuesday, a Krystal day. She showed up at my doorway in her scrubs and looked tired. Coming off her shift, I supposed. It was mid-afternoon. I was dressed and in my wheelchair by this time, looking out the window. I hadn’t taken my meds yet. The teddy bear sat on my pillow, where I had left it that morning after I woke.

Krystal took notice of it right away. “Where’d this come from?” she asked. I was afraid she would go over and touch it, or pick it up, but she didn’t move, still slouching against the doorjamb.

“From a friend,” I said.

She brightened. “A friend, huh?” She came in and set down her bag, pulling up a chair close to me. “Anyone I know?”

I shook my head. “No, someone from the 3C days.” This was how we referred to those years.

“Ah,” she said. She ran her hands through her hair. It had one giant crimp in it that made it lie funny, as if it had been up in a ponytail for hours. “I’m glad to hear you have a friend.”

I studied her face for signs of sarcasm, idly wondering if this would be the day she’d finally break and cry, or even fight back. But there was nothing.

She was looking out the window, a long day etched in her face, and in the afternoon light I saw for the first time how much she had aged. She had the beginnings of crow’s-feet near her eyes, very faint, feathering out in fine creases. A small vertical line near her eyebrow that I remembered from our childhood was also visible, the one where her forehead would scrunch while she was concentrating, or casting me a funny scowl at one of my more outrageous remarks. Yeah right, Bonnie. It never unfolded now.

In my mind, even now, she was still her sweet and timid teenage self who had followed me around, or the grief-ravaged Krystal I had left behind on that December night. I realized that this new version had graduated all of them. Those people didn’t exist anymore. Time had passed, after all.