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Penny sits down in one of the armchairs. She sets the laptop case at her feet with her bag. At Norm’s request she lowers the blinds. Sitting in an armchair facing him, she plays with the controls for the bed, resting her feet on it and letting the bed pull her into a slump.
    He smiles and says, “Leave it like this for a while. I like this position.”
    â€œHow are you doing?”
    â€œNot perfect. I have this god-awful crick in my neck. Maybe it was the ambulance ride. I felt like I was going to get bounced right out of that thing.” He moves his head from side to side and sighs.
    She offers to do acupressure. She positions her hands and finds a certain spot between two cervical vertebrae.
    â€œThat’s the spot,” he says.
    Three minutes later, he says it’s not helping. When she releases her hold, she is dismayed to see that the pressure has caused a dark bruise. She asks, “You want to do the dictation software thing?”
    â€œNot right now. I had a busy morning. You could read to me a little. Maybe I’ll fall asleep, and then I’ll see you tomorrow when I’m awake. Don’t forget to take the laptop when you go.”
    â€œNobody’s going to steal it.”
    â€œWhat makes you think that? You see any expensive equipment in this place?”
    â€œThere’s towels and a pillow,” she says after opening a few closet doors. “Want a pillow?”
    â€œSure, I’ll take it.”
    She folds the pillow and arranges it artfully to support his head. “How’s that?”
    â€œIt’s helping,” he says. “I guess it’s just muscle strain.”
    Over the course of the next hour, she leaves, taking the laptop, and he moves his head. The pillow falls down.
    He sleeps through the fall of the pillow. He wakes up with a terrible crick in his neck.
    EARLY EVENING. A FIFTYISH, BLOND-HAIRED woman in a blue lab coat knocks twice on Norm’s open door and enters his room. He is wide awake, staring at the blank TV screen.
    She introduces herself as the deputy director of the hospice. She says that there are important decisions to be made about his care. Of course family members can be involved, but they aren’t indispensable.
    Norm says he feels qualified to decide on his own. She produces a form on bright green paper. She runs down a long list of ways he might procrastinate, from defibrillation to antibiotics, all of which he rejects. She shows him where to sign, and he inscribes legible initials.
    She concludes by asking—somewhat unexpectedly, in his view—“And what do you want?”
    â€œAfter all that? I want for it to be 1951, and for you to be a root beer float.”
    â€œIt’s a serious question. Think carefully.”
    â€œHow about 1968 and a smack overdose? I just don’t want to be an old man dying in a hospice. But I guess that’s what I’m stuck with.”
    The doctor is silent. She blinks.
    â€œAs you might imagine, I’m in bad shape physically,” he adds. “I’m weak. The discomfort keeps me from concentrating, so I’m bored out of my mind. And it’s driving my daughter crazy. I hate for her to see me like this, but I can’t make her go away.”
    â€œShe loves you very much.”
    â€œShe adores me. It’s heartbreaking.”
    The doctor nods and smiles. Cautiously she asks, “Are you religious?” He doesn’t respond. She asks, “Have you tried prayer?”
    â€œTo whom? I don’t imagine God is in charge of this. This seems more like a case for the other guy.”
    â€œMr. Baker—”
    â€œGod is life. I’m not one of those people who thinks death is part of life. I think it’s pretty darn obviously the opposite of life, to beperfectly frank. That’s why I have trouble getting psyched up for it.”
    â€œThat doesn’t mean help won’t come to you if you ask. Ask, and it shall be