my husband tethered to this world. At sixty-nine years old, I had discovered that this room was the loneliest place on Earth.

Down the hall, Room 312 was a universe away. It was a constant parade of life, a vibrant tableau of family. I could hear the bright, unrestrained laughter of children mixing with the low hum of adult conversations. I heard the rustle of cellophane as flower arrangements were moved around, the scrape of chairs on linoleum as people made room for yet another family member to squeeze in. Yesterday, I counted twelve people crammed into that small space,