The doctor leans forward, and his different-colored eyes are piercing now. “Sam, you’re thirteen years old. I like you and you’re more intelligent than most people I know. That’s why I shall always refuse to lie to you or to treat you like an idiot by telling you about angels or Jesus at the end of the tunnel.” Now he turns to me. “But I’m not going to impose on Sam what I’m willing to impose on you, Mrs. Tomlin.” He taps on the living will. “When someone’s on the brink of death, it always unleashes an endless series of humiliating bureaucratic procedures. If you sign this, you’ll be taking on responsibility for Sam’s father. Can you do that, Mrs. Tomlin? Can you take responsibility for a life, or for a death?”

Dr. Saul leans back. His leather chair creaks.

For hell’s sake! I feel like screaming at Henri. I’m sitting here and I have to answer an asshole’s question about whether I’m willing to take responsibility for your life! Why did you do it, Henri?

“Consider very carefully whether you want to do this and whether you’re capable of doing it. Think about whether you’ll be there for Henri Skinner, to talk to him, move him, stand by him wherever he may be, live with him—if you wish to put it that way—more intensively than you’ve ever lived with anyone before. Every day for an absolutely indefinite length of time.”

Forever, that means. Forever, in this and every other life.

I want to say something, but he won’t let me speak. He lifts his hand—the calloused hand of a carpenter—and immediately continues, “No, please! You don’t have to give me your answer now, Mrs. Tomlin. Not today. I wouldn’t take it seriously if you did. You’re in a minor state of shock, high on emotion and adrenaline. You really want to stick it to me and prove yourself. And you know what? That’s good! It shows you’re a real trouper, not easily shaken. Difficult and annoying maybe, but reliable.”

He gives me a copy of the contract I, as Henri’s representative, would sign with the hospital. My eyes devour the figures. A bed in the Wellington Hospital’s rehabilitation department costs half a million pounds per year. Henri’s health care, paid for by his press insurance plan, will cover two years of treatment. So two years is the average time the British state grants a person to recover from death. I feel like breaking something—for example, Dr. Saul’s collection of delicate jade crabs, turtles, and seahorses, which he has lined up on his shelves in front of his hundreds and hundreds of books.