under the treat table, on the bulletin board packed with Sunday school kids’ drawings of God’s love.
Nothing. It was the only place we’d been together in those last days besides his house, and it either wasn’t here or I was missing something.
Perhaps he’d left it for me in the hospital, but if so, it had almost certainly been thrown away after his death.
I was really out of breath by the time I settled into a chair next to Isaac,
and I devoted the entirety of Patrick’s nutless testimonial to telling my lungs they were okay, that they could breathe, that there was enough oxygen.
They’d been drained only a week before Gus died—I watched the amber cancer water dribble out of me through the tube—
and yet already they felt full again. I was so focused on telling myself to breathe that I didn’t notice Patrick saying my name at first.
I snapped to attention. “Yeah?” I asked. “How are you?”
“I’m okay, Patrick. I’m a little out of breath.”
“Would you like to share a memory of Augustus with the group?”
“I wish I would just die, Patrick. Do you ever wish you would just die?”
“Yes,” Patrick said, without his usual pause. “Yes, of course. So why don’t you?”
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