Chapter 7

Sam whispered, “Aging is not for the weak.”

To this, Harry nodded.

He listened to Sam’s shallow breathing, his chest lifting and collapsing like a sunken vessel. As Sam lurched forward to catch himself from choking, Harry stood and slid a hand under his friend’s head to prop him up. From the congested, throaty gurgles, Harry was afraid that Sam might die in front of him. He thought about calling Melinda.

But after Sam quieted and shifted back into a semi-comfortable position, Harry took his seat, crossing and uncrossing his hands in his lap. Staring over at Sam, he found himself reminiscing about good times.

Harry sighed, stirred in his seat.

Sam coughed. A beat. Two. Three. Then, “I’ve always been closed-mouthed about personal issues. Even with my closest friends.” He drew a breath, added, “Life is too short.”

In the lamplight, Sam reminded Harry of Zeke, a gaunt, ghostly remnant of his former self.

“Do you need anything?” Harry asked.

A slow shake of the head. “Nothing.”