“Sari Epstein sent me these,” I say. “After I invited myself to her house and we accepted the free gift of Gary’s spot and I defiled her property and fled under cover of darkness. Instead of publicly shaming me on Instagram or Facebook or sending me a furious email, she refunded my retreat fee and sent me a package full of her coloring books. I mean, who does that?”

Glenn closes her eyes. “A total bitch.”

We both laugh to the point of tears.

“I’m such an asshole,” I say. “And it was her note that really got me. It said, I’m sorry you’re in pain. May you be released from it soon. How did she know that?”

This time we don’t laugh.

“I am in pain,” I say. “I’m sad about everything.”

Glenn takes my hand.

“I wish this weren’t happening. I wish you weren’t sick.”

“I won’t be sick much longer.”

For a second I think she’s telling me that she’s getting better, that a scan I didn’t know about has come back showing unexpected improvement and recovery. But then I realize what she’s really saying. That it won’t be much longer.

I put the crayons—a fistful of blues and pinks and greens and reds—down. I watch Glenn, with both dogs asleep next to her on the bed, close her eyes.

“It looks like I’ll probably be leaving soon, a little earlier than we thought, so like you said the other day, we need to make our plans.”

I start to cry. I don’t want to make plans. I don’t want her to go. I don’t want her to leave early.

“I’m not ready,” I sob.

“I know. But I am.”

* * *

The plans we make are short and simple; the basics. I know the drill, the order of what’s needed at the end:

We will call for a hospital bed to be delivered; we will call a home hospice service to visit and start their services; a palliative “comfort kit,” with liquid morphine, will be stored in the refrigerator. I’ll print out and tape her DNR—Do Not Resuscitate order—to the refrigerator so there won’t be any misunderstanding should someone—Daisy, me, Glenn herself—panic and call 911. Gary and I will come by daily, but it will be Daisy, technically her cousin’s daughter, who will come down from Portland, Maine, and be on call for the duration and then pack up the house and settle things after Glenn is gone.

“But you’ll take Lucy,” she says, an urgent reminder.

“Of course I will.” I show her the pictures on my phone that I’ve already taken of Lucy’s cabinet in the kitchen: the food she eats, the treats she likes, all the supplies—her crate, her bed, her leash, her brush, her toys. “I’ll bring everything with me so that our house feels like home.”

We look at the dogs, lying next to each other, similar enough in their coloring and shape and size to almost look related. I picture myself walking Lucy on a leash while still carrying Charlotte, just for a few days, until I give up the sling for good.