looking horrified. I’m eighty-five, not immortal.”
I coughed violently while she continued.
“The doctors say maybe a few years. Maybe less. Arthritis is getting worse. Driving hurts. Carrying groceries hurts. Existing hurts. I need help.”
“With what exactly?”
“Everything annoying.”
That turned out to mean:
Groceries.
Doctor visits.
Medication pickups.
Fixing shelves.
Cleaning gutters.
Replacing lightbulbs.
Shoveling snow.
Opening jars she refused to admit she could not open herself.
“And what do I get?” I asked carefully.
She watched me quietly for a few seconds.
Then she said:
“When I
