She looked at him intently and tried to take his pulse. There was none. She breathed into his mouth as hard as she could, trying to fill him with air, so much that he’d float up to life like a balloon, but it was like trying to fill up a tire with a hole in it, or—She broke off.

“We were positive I’d go first,” she said. “Because of my age. And you’d have to be the one to decide what to do when my mind went….” She tried to keep a conversational tone, not to panic. For one thing, they’d promised each other not to cry.

A few cars passed. She felt as if Lawrence was still alive, but obviously not in that body. How had it let him escape? She eyed it, accusingly, became angry at it. A chuckle started up in her throat and she caught herself. A sign of panic, she thought, to be avoided at all costs. Lawrence was dead and his body was dead. She didn’t believe in an afterlife.

She paused, staring at Lawrence’s body, trying to be very matter of fact. She must be detached to avoid panic, to protect her own sanity, and be as normal as possible. What would she do if everything was all right? The answer came. She got milk, bread, and jam from the midget refrigerator, sat down across from Lawrence’s body and began to eat, neatly, careful not to spill any crumbs upon the floor. Careful about everything. He was sitting upright. People passing by in their cars saw an elderly man and woman facing each other in a camper-trailer, with a lamp warmly shining behind yellow transparent window curtains.

Finishing her milk and jelly sandwich, Lydia put the stuff away and fed the cats.

Plans, she thought. If her mind was failing her, and she was sure that it was, then she had to be crafty; and careful. They’d promised each other no funerals and no flowers, no calling of relatives until everything was over; none of the rituals or nauseating rites reserved for the dying, dead, and aged.

“Lydia.”

She sprang around, certain that someone had called her name. Involuntarily she said, “Lawrence?”

“Am I dead?” he asked. But where were the words coming from, inside her head or outside?

“Of course you are, don’t be cruel. You know my mind does funny things sometimes,” she said. “I’m not hearing a thing. I’m making it all up.”

“Your mind can’t make me up. I’m over here,” Lawrence said.

“Lawrence, I don’t believe in spirits—”

“But neither do I,” he said. “Is my heart beating?”

“No!” she shouted. “You don’t have any pulse at all. Now stop it. Where is your voice coming from?”

“Why, from me, I suppose. I’m over by the couch. At least I think I am. I had a heart attack—”