“Not on the ring.

Somewhere nobody can see it.” So it went into the inside pocket of my coat, the one with the broken snap.

A nurse came in carrying a tray, and he waved her away.

She told him he had to drink something.

He told her he’d been drinking since before she was born, and she laughed and left the cup.

After that we talked about the Buick.

He wanted to know the mileage.

I told him a hundred ninety thousand and change, and he said that was a fine car and I ought to drive it to Montana and not tell anybody where I’d gone.

I laughed.

He didn’t laugh.

“Your grandmother would have liked that car,” he said.

“If a woman named Olivia calls you from the state office, pick up.”

Then he asked for his ice chips, and by the time I found the elevator he was asleep with his mouth hanging open.

He died that evening a little after seven, while I was down in the hospital garage feeding quarters into the meter.