He sat silently for a while, then got up, moved behind her bed and opened the IV. He sat down next to her again. She looked at him and nodded.

“You were always more practical,” he said.

He thought she might have smiled a little, but he wasn’t sure.

He waited, calmer now and wanting to be very sure she was gone. He waited long after she had stopped breathing, until the warmth had left her frail hands. Then he got up and, as they had agreed, began the preparations. He took the plastic jerrycan of gasoline and went into the living room, filling two small bowls at opposite corners, then did the same in two other rooms.

He went back to her side. Her hands were cold now, her body beginning to stiffen. He gathered the covers closely around her, as if it would matter, and laid the pistol down on the bed. Then he went to the furthest corner of the house and set the mound of paper he had put there on fire. He did the same thing twice more, then went back to the bedroom, carefully now, not wanting to fall.

He sat down next to her and listened. There was a crackling sound, then the whoosh of the gasoline going up.

He felt a wave of heat rush into the bedroom. Now.

He took the pistol and put the barrel in his mouth, pushing up so the trajectory would be right, and found the trigger.