We sat, Gus in his chair and me on the damp grass, as near to Funky Bones as we could get him in the chair.
I pointed at the little kids goading each other to jump from rib cage to shoulder
and Gus answered just loud enough for me to hear over the din, “Last time, I imagined myself as the kid. This time, the skeleton.”
We drank from paper Winnie-the-Pooh cups. A typical day with late-stage Gus:
I went over to his house about noon, after he had eaten and puked up breakfast.
He met me at the door in his wheelchair, no longer the muscular, gorgeous boy who stared at me at Support Group,
but still half smiling, still smoking his unlit cigarette, his blue eyes bright and alive.
We ate lunch with his parents at the dining room table. Peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and last night’s asparagus.
Gus didn’t eat. I asked how he was feeling. “Grand,” he said.
“And you?” “Good. What’d you do last night?” “I slept quite a lot.
I want to write you a sequel, Hazel Grace, but I’m just so damned tired all the time.”
“You can just tell it to me,” I said. “Well, I stand by my pre–Van Houten analysis of the Dutch Tulip Man.
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