Addie was not one of these preplanners who could whip out a funeral card from her wallet. Nor was Sybil, she was certain. Addie was not executor of Sybil’s will; that duty had been assigned to Sybil’s brother. But she was responsible for some of the decisions being taken now, during Sybil’s illness, because of the power of attorney.

In the meantime, she made attempts to keep herself in balance. She had little time for physical exercise, little time to make proper meals. Before falling asleep at night, she flicked on the TV. National and world news slipped by without any involvement or say-so from her. Any news apart from reports of Sybil scarcely mattered anyway.

Realistically, apart from work, all Addie now had time for in her shrunken world was a series of tasks: laundry, change of towels, change of sheets. On occasion, a quick run of the vacuum through the rooms of her apartment. She was fatigued, preoccupied, sick of being in a car that was constantly on the move between two points on a road map. And—she realized suddenly—she was hungry. How could she think of food while sharing her friend’s last days, weeks, hours? Earlier in the day, Sybil’s mother had urged her to stay for dinner, but Addie had found herself making excuses. She could not sit at a table eating while Sybil was down the hall in her bedroom, propped against pillows, taking sips of fluid through a straw, coughing, short of breath, trying to stay alive.

Do not indulge in melodrama, Addie told herself. She folded the letter she held in her hand and picked up the one beneath it.

I am not trying to “stay” this disease. I am out for a cure. You will know what a setback it was for me to learn that the last test result was discouraging. Instead of moping, I’m focusing on what is within my control: diet, exercise, mood. I’m doing my best to stay in balance. Trying to mete out my strengths so I can call upon them when I must. What I’m missing is laugh therapy. I underline these words because laugh therapy will happen during your visits. Oh, Addie, my friend, we need to laugh. I can’t wait to see you.

Addie pushed aside the rest of the letters and got up to check through her kitchen cupboards. Not much to inspire. Her weight gain since her breakup with Tye had been slow and gradual. She’d been eating all the wrong foods and knew she’d have to make a correction, but she didn’t have the energy to solve that issue. Not now. She needed food, any food, and would worry about losing weight later. After Sybil. That was as far as she could take the thought.

She looked out and down from her kitchen window and began to watch a woman who lived in the building facing hers, but two storeys below. The woman, who had carrot-orange hair, was placing dishes on a patio table in the sheltered part of her balcony. A setting for two: plates, napkins, a bottle of Chianti. The woman stood back and considered. She disappeared into the interior darkness of her apartment, returned with a watering can and sprinkled a hanging plant, a lobelia of the deepest blue. Around the corner of the building, same level, another woman—out of sight of the first—chain-smoked on her balcony while standing at the railing. Smoking was not permitted inside Addie’s building or in the building across the way, and the smoker could be seen outside in all weathers. Some mornings, she was out there shivering in black-and-blue-checked pyjamas, huddled against the cold, a blanket draped over her shoulders, quick desperate puffs pulled into her lungs and wisping outward into the frigid air.