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yourself, man,
he said, getting up and padding around to the other side of the bed so I could see him.
The atmosphere in the house has been shitty, and I for one don’t dig it.
    I don’t dig it, either,
I said.
But it happens from time to time. Mom and Dad probably had an argument and it’s still a little frosty. It’ll pass. Trust me.
    You better be right.
    Of course I’m right.
    Spots of rain against the window, tapping, like some small creature trying to get out of a box. The sky a darker shade of grey. My soul ached to stretch its wings. I imagined a fawn ribbon of sand, The Beach Boys singing “Good Vibrations,” and the refreshing tang of mojitos. I could have released there and then—
wanted
to—but I stayed with Hub. My buddy.
    It’s been a crazy week,
he said.
What with the atmosphere, Fat Annie quitting, and nobody taking me for—
    What?
I said.
Fat Annie quit? Are you serious?
    Dude, you didn’t know?
    Hell, no.
    What, exactly, do you use that superbrain for?
    I’ve been . . .
I trailed off, feeling tears sting my eyes, even though they remained dry, didn’t so much as blink. Fat Annie was my caregiver, and had been for eighteen months. She was stern (given to occasional acts of sweetness) yet undeniably effective, like Mr. Miyagi. I had the deepest respect for her. And yeah . . . love, too. Given the nature of our relationship, it was impossible not to form a bond. She came in most days for three hours—checked my vitals, maintained my PEG tube, took care of my toileting (by which I mean she changed my diapers and wiped my ass). She would sponge bathe me with a tenderness that sent shivers of goodness rolling through my body, massage my limbs to promote circulation, and do (painful, but necessary) assisted range of motion exercises to keep my joints flexible. She’d also administer my tinzaparin shot—a blood thinner that prevents deep vein thrombosis and pulmonary embolus. Ten thousand units injected into my abdomen (I have a neat little hard spot where the needle keeps going in—yeah, it’s fun being me). If the weather was nice she would transfer me to my wheelchair and take me around the block, sometimes to the library, where it was quiet and the smell of books inspired daydreams. If it was too cold out, she’d sit me in my chair and read to me. After changing the sheets, she’d lift me back into bed, placing small pillows beneath my elbows and heels to prevent decubitus ulcers. And all the time—through all this care—she would talk to me. Normally. No baby-talk (you’d be surprised how many of my visitors revert to baby-talk:
Hey, Wessy . . . you feewing all wight? Awww, he’s got an ickle bit of dwool on his chinny-winn).
No dumbing down or awkwardness. She spoke to me the way people should: like I’m a human being.
    Yeah, I loved Fat Annie.
    Her name wasn’t even Annie. It was Georgina. Hub and I called her Fat Annie because she looked and dressed like Kathy Bates in
Misery.
We kept expecting her to call one of us a dirty bird, or walk in carrying a sledgehammer. Just our little joke. No malice intended. Fat Annie was the best. And now she’s gone.
    What the hell is going on?
I said.
Why’d she quit?
    Hub frowned.
I love that the superbrain is asking the dog the questions.
    This is not good, Hub. What’s my new caregiver going to be like?
    I watched the rain hit the window.
    I tell you, man,
Hub said.
There’s an uncool vibe in the air, and I don’t like it.
    No,
I said.
Me, either.
    Dad came in then, his face crossed with anger, his eyes little beads. Hub leapt to his feet and dashed from the room, his paws skating on the hardwood for a moment, like Scooby-Doo running from a ghost. Dad growled and aimed his foot at Hub’s ass but missed.
    ¡Viva la revolución!
Hub shouted over his shoulder, then was gone.
    Dad paused for a moment, just looking at me, and I saw his eyes mist over. He blinked and a solitary tear toppled down his cheek and disappeared into the fuzz of his