At six o’clock in the morning, I walked back down the west wing hallway to the master suite.

The bedroom smelled of pine furniture wax and cold tea.

Raymond lay flat on his back under the cream quilt, his gray hair uncombed on the white pillowcase and his breathing shallow.

I set my blue ledger notebook on the nightstand, reached under the sheet, and took hold of his left hand.

His skin felt cool, but when I pressed my thumb against his wrist, I felt a quick, tight twitch in the muscle.

“Mr.