Of course I ask all the questions. Of course none of the answers matter. Her mother has two weeks. Or maybe two months. She’s not sure. One doctor used the word decomposing. Decomposing, like a carcass. Good thing the hospital is only fifteen minutes away. Good thing her mother isn’t in pain. She’s in charge of all the medical decisions. Because she’s a nurse. Because she’s the oldest. Because she speaks English best. Because. She says a heavy hat to wear. Her phone rings. She fights with four voices — shrills of her siblings, monotone of the doctor. She discusses whether they should place a G-tube. She paces my living room, winding in and out of Cantonese. She says heavy hat to wear, this time to the doctor. She takes off a pair of gloves with each fraction of a decision, puts on a new one. She builds a purple mountain of despair on my counter. She checks my IV bag. She checks my pump. I think about how I didn’t think I’d be thinking about dying today. I think about how is dying is so much sadder than dead. I think about how my son’s heart almost stopped halfway through labor. I think about how so many hearts hardly start. I think about how, near the end, the voices grow softer and the machines get louder. She grips her phone more tightly. She says I told you, I don’t know. She says what do you want me to do. She turns sharply down my hall. She becomes smaller and higher, until she sounds like tinnitus through the wall. My infusion is done. On both ends of the line, the machines beep and beep.