Not lying helpless in a hospital bed.

Not wired to monitors.

Sitting upright in his favorite armchair, a light wool blanket over his legs, both hands resting calmly on the head of his wooden cane, looking back at his nephew with a clear and level gaze.

The color drained from Christopher’s face all at once.

“Uncle,” he stammered.

“Good morning, Christopher,” Raymond said, and his voice was winter-cold.

“Sit down.” Christopher did not move.