I told people I wanted to help.
The truth was that I needed somewhere grief could exist without anyone asking when I planned to move on.
Nathan had one leather bag and no emergency contact listed.
That was where I met Nathan Cole.
He was fifty-nine, sharp-eyed, and annoyed by almost everything. He hated weak coffee. He hated daytime television. He hated when nurses called him brave.
Most patients had flowers, photographs, or relatives who arrived carrying food.
Nathan had one leather bag and no emergency contact listed.
« You remembered cream in my coffee. »
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