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said. “Hunting is a little dirty for me.”
    It stormed that night, wind and rain pounding the thin camper walls. In bed, the darkness was all-encompassing, pitch-black as it could only be away from city lights. Kate could see nothing in it. No sign of Charles beside her. No sign of her own hand in front of her. And as the wind continued to rage, Kate thought of the grouse out there clenched like fists in the shelter of trees and covered over in the same darkness that seemed to be smothering her. She felt his touch then, his soft fingers settling over the place where her breast was gone. It was not a sexual touch. It was tender. It wanted only closeness. And when Kate tried to remove his hand, he held her more firmly, and soon she let her hand rest over his, let herself be held in a darkness that felt safer now.
    In November, Kate found it almost impossible to work through a full day at the bank. She was having pressure headaches that made even light physical activity unthinkable. Her double vision and dizziness worsened. At times, her left hand stopped functioning. She couldn’t make the fingers close, and so for hours at a time she would keep this hand in her lap and hope no one noticed. To a degree, these signs of her illness relieved Kate. Certainty was good. It precluded hope. It precluded delusion and disappointment. And then, for a day, even two or three, the pain and fatigue would lift and she’d feel remarkably well again. She’d eat large dinners with Charles and make love to him. She’d take long walks with him and stay up late watching rented movies. She’d laugh loudly at his jokes, which were admittedly not so funny. But the pain would always come back, and she had to prepare herself for its return. She had to remind herself that she would die, which she did by handling numerous practicalitieswith the same dispatch and efficiency she brought to everything else in her life. She prepared her taxes in advance, contacted a lawyer, revised her will, set up a checking account for Melissa, who would turn seventeen in six months and would live alone in the year before college. Kate arranged a very brief and affordable funeral, at which, she had decided, no physical remains of her—in a jar or coffin—would be present. Kate found comfort in these tasks. They made death accomplishable, something she could do rather than something that would be done to her.
    One morning, after four days of what felt like perfect health, Kate got up from bed and collapsed before she’d gotten halfway to the bathroom. Charles was helping her up when she realized what had happened. She was unhurt, and as soon as she could stand on her own, she pushed Charles away. “Please don’t cling to me,” she said.
    â€œYou just fell.”
    â€œI stumbled. I’m fine now.” She went into the bathroom, and when she came back out, Charles was sitting on the edge of the bed looking up at her with too much concern in his eyes.
    â€œIs something wrong?” He paused, seeming to realize the danger in his question. “Are you unwell?”
    She slammed her underwear drawer, panties and a bra clenched in her fist, and began rifling through dresses in her closet with a physical vigor that was meant to be definite proof of her wellness. Charles flinched when she threw a dress down on the bed. “I am not unwell.”
    â€œYou just collapsed.”
    â€œI tripped.”
    â€œYour knees gave out from under you. I saw it. You’ve been tired lately. I’ve seen that, too.”
    She turned her back to him and kicked a stray house slipper into the wall. “I’m dying.” She was furious at him for making her say it. But in the long silence after her admission, her anger faded. “I lied to you earlier. I’m not recovered. I’m sick.”
    â€œDying,” he said flatly. “Dying when?”
    â€œI’m dying now.”
    â€œWhen?” he asked