"So how'd it happen?" Carol asked, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose while Boris shrugged.

"Close as I heard, he just died in his sleep," Boris said, "If only we should all be so lucky."

"That's so boring," Carol said, "Did you ever expect yourself to die in a place like this? Surrounded by fake plants and wicker furniture?"

"I never expected myself to die, so, no," Boris replied.

As Boris popped some gum in his mouth and started chewing, Larry came up to his side, one hand on his hip, the other gripping the top of his cane, as he lifted it up and shook it at the people emptying some things from Mr. Hendersons room.

"What's going on?" Larry asked.

"Harry Henderson died last night," Boris said.

"How?" Larry asked.

"Just died in his sleep, peacefully," Boris said.

"He was always so boring, he couldn't even die excitingly," Carol said, making Boris smirk.

Just then Boris heard a loud thunk, and he turned to see Nurse Whittle pulling a stretcher in through the front doors. Boris turned and headed to help her, best he could, with bringing it down the hall. As he grabbed hold of the other side and started to wheel it with her, Whittle shook her head, her little blonde braids looking like puppy tails.

"I hate days like this," she said, "These are what I was afraid of when I first started in this business. I hate death, it just...it's so sad, I never wanna be around any dead people."

"You should've picked a different field then," Boris said, making her chuckle as he tossed another piece of gum in his mouth, "Lots of people are going to die here, all around you, and eventually even ones you'll be close to."

"Don't talk about that," Whittle said, looking up at him, and Boris felt like he'd gone too far, "Just help me get this over there so they can get him out of here."

Boris nodded and continued to help her push the stretcher over to Hendersons door. After they stopped it, Whittle turned and went back to the front desk, leaving Boris with his friends. Carol sighed as Larry headed back to the main entertainment room with everyone else. Boris and Carol turned and looked in through Hendersons door to see his body still in his bed, covered by a sheet. They entered the room, Caroline looking at his things on the dresser (pictures, etc) while Boris sat on the side of the bed by Hendersons side.

"God, look at this," Carol said, "He had like 4 grandkids. God, I remember when my grandmother died, I was so upset. My grandfather had died before I was born, so I never got to meet him obviously, but this is going to devastate these kids. It's going to change them forever."

"Your entire life is boiled down to this...a whole lifetime of experiences, dwindled to a small room you don't even like or want to be in, surrounded by only the essentials now, waiting for people who may never even come visit you," Boris said.

"Hey, you're not going anywhere anytime soon so don't worry. Besides, you didn't even like Henderson all that much," Carol said, standing next to Boris, rubbing his back. Boris wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked up at her, smirking a little as she sighed, "Alright, come on, up on your feet. We're going to get some breakfast."

                                                                     ***

"I think my least favorite part of it all is that we have to deal with the fact that we have to get to know someone else when someone dies," Larry said, "That's so annoying. My memory is shit, okay? I'm not remembering anyone new, sorry. I already work hard to remember my own name, let alone anyone new."

Boris was sitting at the lunch table with everyone else, stirring his coffee with his spoon while Larry and Carol ate lunch. Just then, a short haired brunette stopped by the table. It was Polly Tweed from the third floor, with her pad in her hand.

"Alright, so, who bet on Harry?" she asked, tapping the pad with her pen as Larry opened his wallet and handed her some money.

"This death pool is going to wipe me out," Larry said under his breath.

"You guys don't think it's a little bit sick?" Boris asked sternly, "Betting on when your friends are going to die, hoping they die before you do?"

"First off, they're not our friends," Carol said, "Secondly, I like money more than I do living, so I'm not doing this in the hopes that I'll outlive someone as much as I'm doing it for the hope that I'll make money from outliving someone."

"I...I guess I can't argue with that," Boris said, sipping his coffee.

"Any takers for this months pool?" Polly asked.

"Who is it?" Boris asked.

"Torn Peters, up on the second floor," Polly said, "He's got a bad cough right now, and he's about 87. It's pretty much a win for anyone, so I'm likely to be paying out to everyone this month."

"I'll take that action," Carol said, handing Polly a twenty dollar bill, "Got nothing else to spend this money on."

Boris got up and headed out of the lunchroom, while the others watched. As he got outside, he began pacing, digging frantically in his coat pockets for something when he heard someone clear their throat. Boris turned quickly, surprised, to see Whittle sitting on some steps, smoking a cigarette.

"What's up?" she asked, "Did you lose something?"

"Ironically, I was looking for my nicotine gum," Boris said, finally pulling the package out of his pocket and taking a piece before sitting down beside her, neither one saying a word. They watched The Stitches working on a group quilt in the courtyard, a gentle cool spring breeze wafting by, blowing through their hair.

"Do you still have grandparents?" Boris asked, and Whittle smiled, turning her cigarette around in her fingers, watching it twirl.

"Yeah, I still have a grandpa who's around," she said, "He's not the one I liked as much, he's my dads dad, but...it's nice, having some family like that still be around. Grandparents dying are the first real hit kids take in the world of mortality. I mean, even losing a pet doesn't register the same I think, because you know, while it's not the same as the first pet you can replace a pet. You can't replace a grandparent."

"You talk to him a lot?" Boris asked.

"Nah, not really. On his birthday, or on my birthday when he calls me."

"Does he live in one of these places?" Boris asked, and she shook her head.

"Um, no, he's actually kind of wealthy, so he lives in his place still, has people living with him, helping him," she said, "But, ya know, it's good because he doesn't have to rely on his family and stuff."

"Shouldn't you want to rely on your family? Aren't they supposed to be there for you? Isn't that the whole concept of 'family'?" Boris asked, chewing rapidly while Whittle exhaled smoke into the air and waved it away with her hand, shrugging.

"I don't know," she said, "I guess he just doesn't want to feel like a burden."

"You're a kid, everyone loves you. Everyone wants to help you, give you a head start, you're an advertising dream. Then you get older, and less people want to be with you, think you should be okay on your own, even advertisers don't think you're as worth selling too after a certain age. We tell kids growing up that they shouldn't have to be alone, then they hit a certain age and we tell them 'Welp, you're on your own now, good luck!'; what an unhealthy mixed message. Then, you reach my age, and this family you grew up knowing is dead, you're all that's left, and your own kids, if you're lucky enough to even have any, want to live their own lives so they stick you in one of these places and wait for you to die so they can argue over what you left them, because that's all you end up being in the end...a goddamned slot payout."

Another few moments passed by, and Boris sighed, scratching his head.

"So, can I have Hendersons room?" he asked.

"You literally just made an argument against-"

"I know what I did, I'm a hypocrite. Can I have his room or not?" Boris asked, "It's closer to everything, it's right by the front room and everything, and I..."

"...what?" Whittle asked, exhaling smoke, pushing some hair from her eyes.

"I don't like being at the end of the hall," Boris said, sounding dejected, "I want to be closer to you. You're always at the front desk, I want to be closer to you."

Their eyes locked for a moment, and after a second, Whittle giggled and nodded, taking another long drag.

"I'll see what I can do, Boris," she said, "You want a hit?"

"...yeah, fuck it," Boris said, spitting his gum out and taking her cigarette.

                                                                ***

"I hate you!" she screamed at Boris in the car, "You always do this!"

"Someone has to," Boris said, feeling her kick the back of his chair, "You signed up for this, you can't just not stick to your obligations, okay? If she won't take you, then it's up to me and-"

"I didn't wanna do this! She made me sign up for it!" she yelled, "You guys never listen to what I actually want to do, you just pick things for me!"

"Stop yelling, I can hear you perfectly fine, okay?!"

"I hate you!"

"Fine, that's fine, ya know why? 'Cause I hate me too, so there!" Boris shouted back, and that's when he hit the other car, and woke up, still in bed, same as every time he had this dream. Boris sat up, grabbed his water glass from the side table by the bed and after a few seconds, put it back down, opened the tables drawer and instead pulled out a small bottle of scotch, uncorking it and taking a few sips. Boris got up, walked to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror, and for a split second he swore he was still as young as he was in the dream, but then his eyes adjusted and he saw he was still the same, old, bitter man he'd always been. He walked himself back to his bed and laid back down, thinking back on the dream.

He still hated himself, all these years later