SUMMERRobby’s hardly touched his meatloaf, Lucette thought, crunching up her empty bag of pretzels and tucking it into the pocket of her jeans. Her mother was always at her for doing this, tissues in particular, as her forgotten trash ended up going through the wash and soiling the load. Lucette retrieved the bag with a sigh and placed it on the tray table and pivoted across the bed. It was important that she made an effort to be on her best behavior. If she didn’t, this solo visit with Robby would be her last.“Not a fan?” she asked.Robby shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno. I’m hungry, I guess, only nothing’s appealing.” He turned to the room’s single window in the wall, like a framed painting of the landscape, a skinless world of snow-white bones. Perhaps it gave him comfort knowing there was a wider existence beyond this place.Or maybe it’s mocking him. Gosh, I hope not.“Want to work on the crane?” Lucette asked in an attempt to puncture his sadness, to let in a little light.

THE UGLIESThe first time Robby experienced a night terror, back in the early days of his infection, he had no idea what was going on. Something bitter twinkled to life in his dream, twisting the otherwise innocuous imagery into a nightmare that didn’t end with waking. This was always the worst part. The leftovers. Whatever despicable things the fever conjured in the dream—the uglies, as he’d come to think of them—followed him into reality. There they would linger.The uglies were with him that Christmas night. They stood at the foot of his bed.He’d gone to sleep thinking about the summer Lucette had whispered to life earlier that week. The checkered cloth across the grass, the leaves on the tree, fireflies in the eyes of the dinosaur skull. But his fatigue had been deep. His limbs had grown heavy, as though he weren’t dressed in a gown but an iron suit, like the kind deep-sea divers wore in old movies. And then the heaviness dragged him into the dark where he was alone for a while

MURPHY’S LAWEvery day has its destiny. The cracking icicle that’s almost ready to fall. A branch weighted by too much snow, soon to break. Clouds that try and try to hold in their water, only to fail, and in doing so fulfill their meaning in the world. An architecture of inevitability, that this was fated to be. The destiny of this day: Bloodshed. It would begin with a single drop.A pigeon sailed through the air, uncaring and unthinking. It knew nothing but its desperate need to eat, that desire its only real companion. That, and lice. Wind rustled its feathers as it soared out of the sky towards the hospice, which from above seemed two-dimensional against the snow. It neared the rear courtyard where the tall, two legged creatures sat to eat, this act of survival, despite the cold, uniting them in some strange way.Closer now. Closer.It was then that the wind changed, warping the bird’s descent. Its wings were sideswiped, its body turning fast. The pigeon didn’t feel fear, it ha

RED“What in the name Sam Hill was that?”It was the first time Emily had dropped the expression in years. When times turned south, so too did her vocabulary—even her accent sounded stronger. But the shock of her slip was nothing compared to the sound reverberating through the facility, ringing in her ears.You know what that was, said a voice in the back of her head. You know only too well.Woods was next to Emily at the door to her supervisor’s office, surrounded by the five Crowners. As expected, their visitors had arrived in their ‘casual’ attire, a thrift store patchwork of summer shirts that made them look like unassuming RV drivers, only instead of prowling highways they coursed the corridors of America’s hospice system. Like Emily and Woods, they had all flinched and ducked at the gunshot, exchanging wide-eyed glances.A second blast rung out. Someone started screaming for help. Mykel.“The break room,” Woods said. She clutched her blouse, a gesture that undermined the fe