rushing to work.
That freezing Tuesday, Larry looked terrible.
His skin had a yellowish cast, and his hands trembled when I gave him his coffee.
“What is this?” I asked, pointing at the sign. “What is this?”
“The clinic gave me about a month.”
The traffic noise seemed to disappear.
“What?”
“Liver failure.”
I sat beside him on the cold concrete.
“Larry, I’m so sorry.”
“The clinic gave me about a month.”
“Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one people make when they’re already at your funeral.”
Even then,
