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Naomi never quite knew what to do with her hands on an elevator.  The sudden lift always left her feeling a little off balance, but clinging to the railing along the back made her feel cowardly.  So she leaned her hip against the wall, arms crossed, and concentrated on the steady march of the floor indicator lights.  The older couple occupying the cab with her were wrapped in the suffocating blanket of grief, the same one that had cocooned her for these last two weeks, and across the silence, their eyes met in an exchange of loss and sympathy.

The bell dinged on "6," and the doors whooshed open.  She waited for the couple to step off first, and then followed them into the brightly lit hallway that reeked of disinfectant.  Her feet remembered the way, and moments later she stood in the doorway of his room, watching his frail chest rise and fall, hearing the wheeze of the ventilator as it accordioned air in and out of his helpless lungs.

The nursing assistant was rinsing out a square plastic pan, and the room smelled like soap and baby powder.  He was cleanly shaven, hair combed smooth across his forehead, fresh Micropore tape holding the feeding tube in place.  Someone had turned the television on, a low-volume background of financial reports and business news.  She supposed they wanted to make sure that he was up to date in case he decided to wake up and call his stockbroker to do some last-minute trading.

She stepped to the side to let the aide out of the room, nodding thanks as they passed each other.  It was warm enough that she didn't need the sweater she had worn, so she slipped it off and hung it in the flat little closet beside his bed.  The armchair had been moved aside to allow the nurses to reach his telemetry equipment, and she slid it closer, settling in comfortably and reaching between the rails for his hand.

"Tom?" she said, and her voice broke on the single syllable.  She cleared her throat and tried again.  "Tom, it's Naomi.  I've been out for a little while, but I'm back for the rest of the day."  She patted and stroked the thin, translucent skin that stretched taut over the bones of his knuckles.  Fading blue and green bruises dotted the yellowed flesh where needles had been inserted and removed more often than seemed necessary to her.

 She glanced up at the television, and reached for the remote control that hung by a clip from the railing.  Thumbing the channel selector, she stopped when she found an old black and white cowboy movie—"shoot 'em ups," he had always called them.  Gene Autry had been his favorite, the white-hatted hero who knew right from wrong and always had a song for every situation.

 What would he sing for Tom, she wondered.

"I saw your friend Richard today, from Western Motors.  He said that they've added a new rental department over there, and the manager thinks it'll be a cash cow, but he said you would have had enough sense to put the kibosh on the whole thing.  Said people don't take care of things that don't belong to them, so half the profits will end up going toward repairs.  Thought you'd get a kick out of that."

He lay still, eyes closed and sunken.  He seemed to be shrinking, a fraction of himself worn away by the vicious, ravenous cancer.  The arms that had rippled with sinewy muscles were thin and flaccid, his legs little more than dry sticks ending in white socks.  As she cradled his hand in hers, the fingers of her other hand glided gently up and down his forearm, caressing it lovingly.  When she reached the big scar on the inside of his arm, the skin felt different, thick and shiny, and something deep in her belly turned over slowly.

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"Come on, Naomi, we gotta get back home before Mom gets lunch ready or she'll whip us for sure!"  He stood at the other end of the log bridge, holding his hand out to her.

"No, I wanna pick buttercups!"

 He huffed impatiently.  "You know she'll be waiting on the front porch.  Come on!"

 The tiny girl tossed her red pigtails and began to head back up the mountain, stopping every few yards to bend and pluck a handful of shiny yellow blossoms.  The seat of her panties that