I read the passage that states, “The patient’s legally appointed caregiver is entitled . . . ,” and then read it again, more slowly this time. I’d have the power to decide all treatment and medication. I’d have the power to have the life-support machine turned off. I’d have the power to let Henri die.

“Give yourself twenty-four hours or, better, three days. Talk to someone who can tell you if you’re biting off more than you can chew. Do you know anyone like that?”

“Yes, I do,” I say. “Do you?”

He chuckles. “Not many. By the way, do you love him?”

“Sorry?”

“Do you love Henri Skinner?” Dr. Saul repeats.

“Is that a precondition?”

He slowly shakes his head. “No. It makes things harder actually.”

I’d be crazy if I still loved him. Henri may not have wanted me in his life, but I’m fine for managing his death. Love him? No, I’m not that crazy. I could do with a whiskey.

“Taking care of a person in a coma is like marrying somebody who’ll never say they love you,” he says more calmly. “And yet you must give him all the affection and strength you have. All your love too, if you feel any for him, that is. With no prospect of a happy ending. You’d spend a large part of your life with someone who isn’t there.”

Really? That’s nothing special. I’m used to that with Henri.

Dr. Saul leans back in his chair. I roll up the living will and the contract into a tight bundle.

So here I am, and all my plans from three weeks ago have turned to dust. Henri has come roaring back into my life like a comet. There’s no way out. Sam looks at me, and his eyes are overflowing with hope, fear, trust, and deep determination. As if his gaze could force me to decide.

But I can’t. I’m not going to get hooked on that drug again. I was addicted to Henri. A total junkie.

My feelings turn into a wild beast. I’ve starved myself to keep it under control, but now it’s stirring again. Come on, it growls, let’s do it!

All those hundreds of nights! All those hundreds of thousands of tears! All those times I avoided men with a physique or gait like Henri’s, guys who used his cologne, bore his name, or loved Zaz, Amy Winehouse, and Bob Marley. All those times I thought of him in spite of myself. All the memories I shunned.

My love beast tells me those torments are irrelevant. Come on, it growls, let’s love.

No. NO.

Sam