“Last night I dreamt I was dying”, Peter said from my bedside.

“Is that *weez* supposed to be *weez* funny?”, I gasped and spit between the respirator cycles.

He looked down at his shoes and squirmed a little after I pointed out his faux-pauz. “No I just… I thought, maybe, it was something we could talk about.”

Once I would have ripped him a new one for saying something so stupid. But twenty years of tough love hadn’t made him any smarter, and I was just too damn tired to care, so I just turned my head towards the window.

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