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head into his lap. “Suck me off good, baby,” he said, holding her head down.
    Franny did as he asked, tears forming in her eyes.
    “Oh, my sweet baby,” he said, sliding down an inch, making himself comfortable. “You’re going to have to do better than that. You’re not getting me very hard.” He brushed the hair back from her face, gently, and said, “I’ll give you five minutes to make me come. If you don’t, then I’ll have to punish you.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    Franny’s days at the clinic passed uneventfully. She had to work late tonight, and by the time she was driving home, around six-thirty, fog was settling in. It wasn’t too bad crossing the causeway, just wispy films of it floating along like gossamer, but as she got close to Davis it turned into a ground-hugging, heavy fog: tule fog. The sharp beam of her headlights dissipated into a gray illumination, dreamlike and hazy, the fog so dense it soundproofed the world. Oleander bushes lining the freeway median materialized a few feet in front of her car, then were swallowed in the dark haze as she drove on.
    She got off at the Mace exit, turned left over the overpass, then slowed down and deliberated. She had three choices: McDonald’s, Taco Bell, or Burger King. She went straight and headed for the Burger King, ordered her dinner at the drivethrough, then got back on the street, driving carefully in the tule fog. She turned onto the old frontage road paralleling the railroad tracks, a dreary and forlorn road even without the smothering fog, then turned right on Pole Line and headed out to Driftwood Convalescent Hospital. Franny used to visit Mrs. Deever only on weekends or on her days off, but lately, since she gave up her bike rides, she visited her three or four times a week, stopping by when she got off work, bringing her dinner along.
    As soon as Franny opened the door to Driftwood, the faint, underlying ammonia smell of urine hit her, as enveloping as the fog. Driftwood was clean, the floors always scrubbed, but under the disinfectant and cleanser and the fragrant smells of flowers left as gifts were the indelible sour odors of decay, the urine and feces and vomit from dozens of incontinent patients, from soiled bedclothes and adult-sized diapers, sad reminders of what these old people, who could no longer care for themselves, had come to. It was hard to find cheer in a place where most of the patients were left to die.
    She walked down the long corridors. Festive Christmas pictures were hung on the walls: Santa Claus and his reindeer, bulbed and tinseled trees, peaceful Nativity scenes. In wheelchairs, old men and women rolled slowly in the hallways, going nowhere in particular. Some of the patients were ambulatory but senile, talking to themselves as they wandered throughout the rooms, setting off alarms with their Wonder-Guard anklets when they crossed the boundaries of the building, like prisoners on the lam.
    Franny entered Mrs. Deever’s room, paused just inside the doorway for a moment. The walls were white, with two patients to a room. Beige draperies were pushed back against the walls, but they hung from the ceiling on rails so they could be pulled around each bed, enclosing it for privacy. Mrs. Deever’s roommate was a tiny, gray-haired woman in her eighties who slept most of the day. Rarely was she awake when Franny came to visit, and she was sleeping now, the blue bedspread pulled up to her chin, her slight body a mere ripple under the covers. A urine bag was attached to the side of the bed rail, and the clear tubing from her catheter drained into it, displaying an unhealthy, orangish urine. Neither she nor Mrs. Deever had many visitors, although old get-well cards were taped on the walls by their beds.
    Mrs. Deever had been staring out the glass sliding door to the courtyard. It was dark outside, with nothing to see, but still she stared. Her stocky body was slumped down in the bed, and her face was drawn with fatigue. Around her neck