I lift my scrub top to show her my torso. She inhales sharply. “Yeah, that might be part of the issue.”

“Nadia…” she breathes. “You’re a skeleton.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“When was the last time you ate anything?”

“I…” I try to think. “I don’t know. Before work yesterday, I think? I had half a bagel.”

“Jesus, Nads. You’re the nurse here, not me, but I almost think you might need hospitalization.”

“Possibly.”

“This is officially an intervention,” she says. “From now on, I’m not leaving you alone until I know you’re healthy enough to be left alone.”

I want to deny the need. But I can’t. “Okay,” I whisper. “I think that might be a good idea.”

She flicks a finger at the envelopes on the coffee table. “So…what’s the deal with the key?”

The notecard with the key sits on top of the envelope.

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t read the letter, which I’m guessing explains it. There’s an address, but I don’t recognize it.”

Tess plugs the address into her phone. “It’s…several hours north of here. Near the border, in the mountains. Looks like it’s on a lake.”

I lift the letter and unfold the pages onto my lap. “Okay. Here we go.”

I begin reading.

Dearest, beloved, darling Nadia,

I have put off the writing of this for too long, I fear. Everything else has been arranged. It’s all ready. I know without a shadow of doubt that I’m nearing the end of my time on this planet. I want to deny it, I want to pretend otherwise—continue to pretend otherwise, I mean. But I can’t. I have waited too long and now my hands shake so badly I can barely make this legible. I’m sorry if it is not.

Ye gods, what a morbid opening to this letter those words are. I do not have either strength or courage to begin again, however, so…onward.

Firstly, and most important: I love you. You know this. I hope I have—and believe I have—shown you with my life and my actions in our marriage how deeply and truly I love you. I know you are likely still struggling with anger toward me over having hidden my illness. But I also think you probably understand, because you know me. Better than I know myself, I think.

It bears repeating, in writing: I love you, Nadia Bell.

All I have done, I have done because I love you. Because love is not a feeling, but an action. My life is ending, but yours is not. That’s the most salient fact, for me. I am going to die, and you will remain living after I am gone.