Her health had never been good and it continued to get worse. She seemed to get weaker each year. And neither one of them was a spring chicken. She coughed badly from the cigarettes, and at night Tiny would sit on the bed with her and pat her back while she coughed herself into strangling fits and wheezing spells that he tried to cure by slapping her gently on the back. He’d hold her close and think, Lord, I love her, and then she’d ask for another drink and Tiny would get up and fix it. One time he told her that he wasn’t going to fix it, and she cried and immediately Tiny relented and fixed it. He sat there watching her drink it and wondered if he could bring himself to be strong enough to do what was best for her. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. He knew she’d cry. He didn’t know if he could take that or not. But the doctor knew what he was talking about. He was a doctor. He’d been to college and had learned all those things. And if he said it was killing her, then, by God, it was killing her, and he, Tiny, was the one who was doing it by buying it for her, so in a way, he was killing her, and if he kept buying it, and it did kill her, then what would he do? What would he do for love?