He comes to, unsure what day it is. The bed is still dry, but the pillow is damp. His eyes water in his sleep sometimes. It’s not crying; he’s pretty sure of that. He has nothing to cry about. Hasn’t he already been granted too much life? He flips the pillow to the dry side and waits. There is no reason to get up. There is nothing to do. Rain roars outside. It rained the day he gave the okay to pull out her tube, with decades left on her calendar, decades he has been cursed to spend without her. Thunder shakes the walls. The bathroom ceiling leaks: drip-drip, drip-drip. He wipes his cheeks. It takes many minutes to stand. An adventure in balance and pain. With his foot, he nudges the small bathroom trash can under the leak. The drip-drip, drip-drip muffles into a ping-ping, ping-ping, pinging straight to the end of his patience.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s Brooklyn B., gripping the handles of her rollator.
“We missed you at dinner, Cooper,” she says. “Coming to breakfast? Gotta make sure to eat.”
He hates her. Her and her ugly tattoos, drooping from her neck like a ratty canvas tote. The pretense of her soft sympathetic eyes, as though she understands, as though anyone could understand. He shuts the door in her face and scowls at her on the other side. Ping-ping. Ping-ping. He has to get out of here. Somewhere he won’t be bothered. He puts on his cardigan and sneakers, then heads toward the stairwell. With each step downward, his fury grows. Why should he have to hide in the basement just to get a moment of quiet? Why can’t he just be? Because of survival, he supposes. Sure. Humans need each other for survival. But survival is overrated. We should all be allowed to go when it’s time to go.
He pushes open the laundry room door. There it is, squatting atop the washer-dryer. The dactyl. He thought it would be gone by now, escaped the way it came in. He didn’t get a good look the first time. It is a truly magnificent creature. Its feathers shimmer in the sizzle of the overhead light. He pulls out his ElderScreen, takes a video of the dactyl, and posts it. Notifications flood in, likes and hearts and comments and shares, all from the ElderScreen bots. He wishes his daughter could see the dactyl. And his grandkids. And the great-grand, the new baby. Wouldn’t they get a kick out of it? It’s so beautiful, so vivid. So pink! If only his eyesight was better, he could identify all the different shades. Strawberry and watermelon and dragon fruit. The hot pink of her princess birthday cake. The pale pink of her tiny ballet slippers. She’s in her sixties now, he can’t remember exactly. It’s been two years since the last visit. Or maybe four. He can’t bear to see her. She’s just like her mother.