Several years ago, a man I’ll call Mr. R was hospitalized for months following a bicycle accident. There were four beds in the ward. Mr. R and a little boy occupied the two by the window; another belonged to a young girl. The girl was pale and quiet, rarely speaking, drifting much of the time in and out of a half-waking, half-sleeping haze. Her condition worsened steadily. When she first arrived, she could still hold onto the wall and walk a few steps. Later, she could no longer leave her bed.

She came from another county. Her parents had divorced, and she had come to this town with her mother to earn a living. Then, in a sudden car accident, her mother was gone forever. She had no family here. No friends. Only the meager savings her mother left behind to extend her young but dying life. Yes — she was not so much living as helplessly prolonging life.

Once, Mr. R passed the nurses’ station and overheard them discussing her illness. “The girl won’t make it,” the head nurse said quietly. While the little boy was sick too, he was lively, restless, and full of motion. He often tugged at Mr. R, begging for stories, his voice echoing through the room. Whenever he did, Mr. R would steal a glance at the girl and see her brows tightly furrowed. She seemed unable to bear noise.

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