Our final Tuesday together came rushing back.
I had brought his usual black coffee.
“You staying?” he asked.
“Five minutes.”
“Big spender.”
I ended up staying twelve.
Maybe those twelve minutes had been worth more to him than anything I had brought through the hospice doors.
The final paragraph began:
“Don’t turn me into another person you failed to save.”
My fingers stopped moving.
Because since Larry’s funeral, that was exactly what I had been doing.
If I had noticed sooner.
If I had found a better doctor.
If I
