Christopher looked past me at the tall four-poster bed where his uncle lay motionless under the quilted coverlet.

He reached down and adjusted his gold cufflink with his thumb, turning the polished square twice against his white sleeve.

“My uncle needs absolute quiet for his final rest,” Christopher said.

His voice was thin and clipped, trailing off before the end of the sentence.

“He’s reached the terminal stage of his stroke.”

“He was resting fine until ten minutes ago,” I said.

“If that child keeps making noise, you’ll both be out on the curb before sunrise,” Christopher said.