“You’re right,” Poppy said. “Did you have a fun time golfing with Scott?”

“Guy’s a self-centered loser,” John said.

Poppy snickered. She propped up some pillows behind her so that she was elevated enough to comfortably watch TV.

John said, “I hope fishing’s gonna get me out of golf for at least a day or two.”

Poppy said, “Maybe his new friends from the north end of the course will invite him to go with them tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice.” John turned onto his side, facing Poppy, threw a heavy arm across her waist, and closed his eyes.

Poppy studied her husband’s profile. His five-o’clock shadow, practically a full beard by this hour, was speckled with gray. He had a few curled dark hairs sprouting off the backs of his ears. One coming out of a small mole on his neck. Hair everywhere—he couldn’t keep up with it, like trick candles on a birthday cake.

“Did you take your pills?” Poppy said.

“Mm.”

Soon John’s breathing became heavy. His fingertips fluttered.

Poppy watched TV for another hour and a half. When she started to doze off, she was awakened by footsteps in the hallway. Every room in the house had its own adjoining bathroom, so why would anyone have to be out wandering through the house? Maybe someone was up for a midnight snack. She was too sleepy to investigate. She turned off the TV, discarded the extra pillow from behind her, and snuggled into John. In his sleep, he made minor adjustments to his posture to accommodate her. Her bottom was tucked warm and tight against his crotch, his arm crossed up over her waist and chest, a comforting weight, a seat belt, and his nose pressed into the back of her neck. In the darkness, the cream-colored walls were gray, the blue curtains were gray, the green carpet was gray. Poppy formed herself into the curve of her husband’s body and prayed the only thing she ever prayed, which was not so much a prayer as it was a threat.

When John went in for his back surgery a year earlier, he’d had an adverse reaction to the anesthesia. The doctors had quickly gotten it under control and he came out fine, but the scare was enough to rattle Poppy. Ever since and despite her best efforts, she was consumed by thoughts of her husband’s death. It didn’t help that he’d had such a tough go of it since the surgery, his continued pain a constant reminder of his mortality. If John had a bug bite on his neck, Poppy feared it was a tumor. If he scraped himself up at work, Poppy smeared the affected area with enough alcohol to sanitize a bullet wound. And now with the painkillers she had a whole new set of obsessions and concerns. John didn’t fit the profile of high risk for addiction, but not all of them did. Poppy had been surprised by plenty of the people they knew at home who’d gone down that road. People with all the things you thought would insulate them, or at the very least help them rein it in: kids, church, newly renovated kitchens, committees, etc. You never knew. Well, anyway. She trusted John with her life, but could you blame a wife for counting the pills in her husband’s bottle each night, just to make sure?