Sandy wears the standard-issue, raspy hospital gown— opened to her bruised and cancered butt—sipping gloriously on ice chips as if they were a Long Island iced tea. She grins at her exhausted daughter sitting nearby. She has spent days in this hospital sleeping in the yawning, well-worn Geri chair by her mother’s bedside. They are watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s again, Sandy’s favorite film. Sandy ogles the doctor she has long lusted after and her daughter rolls her eyes. In a moment of insane levity, her daughter settles her into her wheelchair, navigates the newly christened chariot into the hallway, and takes off running while Sandy’s cackles fill the air with much-needed joy. The nurses yell to no avail. Whatthehellareyoudoing? Youcan’tdothathere! The two women are out of breath and hooting uproariously in Sandy’s room by the time security arrives. Who cares about their silly rules? Sandy’s life is tentative. Within the month she will be no more. Every remaining moment is a memory insisting upon being made.