“Detach,” Morrie said again. He closed his eyes, then coughed.
Then he coughed again. Then he coughed again, more loudly.
Suddenly, he was half-choking, the congestion in his lungs seemingly teasing him, jumping halfway up, then dropping back down, stealing his breath.
He was gagging, then hacking violently, and he shook his hands in front of him—with his eyes closed,
shaking his hands, he appeared almost possessed—and I felt my forehead break into a sweat.
I instinctively pulled him forward and slapped the back of his shoulders, and he pushed a tissue to his mouth and spit out a wad of phlegm.
The coughing stopped, and Morrie dropped back into the foam pillows and sucked in air.
“You okay? You all right?” I said, trying to hide my fear.
“I'm... okay,” Morrie whispered, raising a shaky finger. “Just... wait a minute.”
We sat there quietly until his breathing returned to normal.
I felt the perspiration on my scalp. He asked me to close the window, the breeze was making him cold.
I didn't mention that it was eighty degrees outside. Finally, in a whisper, he said, “I know how I want to die.”
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