The middle-aged woman that shares next talks about her brother, Jeff, who was fifty-two, and his life with schizophrenia, and her frustrations with the system that isn’t really a system at all, it’s too disjointed to warrant such a name. How there’s such an emphasis on youth, but youth grow up, and when they grow up, there isn’t enough support to help them when they need it. She confesses his death has been harder for her to deal with than losing her husband to cancer. The cancer was awful, make no mistake, and losing her life partner is one of the hardest things she’s ever been through, but the difference is her husband was given every resource. She can accept that, in the end, they did everything they could for him. But in her brother’s case, it was like no one cared, no one acknowledged that his life was more acutely in danger than even her husband’s had been at certain points. The healthcare professionals she met during his appointments acted as if they deserved awards for even the most mediocre care. She wants to sue the useless resident he saw at his last appointment. That fucking prick who downplayed her brother’s symptoms and only cared about saving his own ass when she called him on it later. He was a carpenter. He loved working with wood. He fell on his table saw and bled to death. It’s coming up on a year, and she’s dreading the anniversary. Her parents have never looked so old. She feels helpless. There’s nothing she can do to make things better for them.

The man after her chooses not to speak.