By eleven on Thursday morning, the late-autumn sun hung low over the hospital parking lot, laying long yellow rectangles across Room 214.

Wade sat at the little plastic visitors’ table by the window radiator, his silver-framed glasses on his nose and his fingers clicking away at his laptop.

I pulled a vinyl armchair up close to Margaret’s bed and held her right hand between both of mine.

Her skin felt cool and thin, like dry parchment, but her thumb rubbed my knuckles in a steady, quiet rhythm.

“Are you still burning the toast, Tommy?” she asked.