I studied his face, noticing how different he looked from back in junior high. I counted seventeen whiskers on his lip, thirteen on his neck and chin,...and noticed for the first time he had a scar on his forehead from a long-deceased zit. His face was widening and hardening, but still had some of that soft boyish look to it yet. I felt so calm and happy just being able to study him like that, not knowing when the next time I would be able to do so would be.Something moved in the space between. He'd had his chaos for the day — now there was nothing to do. Nothing to do but wait for death.That was it. A smile touched the corners of his mouth. His problem was simple, albeit had no solution. He just hadn't given in to the idea of dying — unfortunately that would make no difference in the end. Any rational person, he thought, would feel hopeless about now, would accept that death was inevitable, maybe take the pill that would induce a sleep that would never end.His head throbbed with. More

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