I carried a scale under my overcoat, put the scale on the floor of his hospital room, weighed myself, picked him up, weighed both of us, subtracted my weight from the weight of both of us to come up with a truly appalling number. A number like lacework, bound to be blown away by the wind. When I looked at him I saw that his skin was thin as crepe paper and if he cried he'd dissolve entirely.

He made words with a dry red mouth that were ephemeral as frost and dissipated in the room.

Out the window, trees jostled in the wind scraping the glass and making a sound like he, he, he, softly and incessantly.

Sometime before it all ended he smiled at me. It was the same smile that a newborn gives you, and someone always says it's only gas. I smiled back and nodded. I felt suddenly very light, like the wind out the window could pick me up and scatter me places.