I want to see the book closed, not just see my character written out of it. I want to know I’m not missing anything. I’d hate to think that things really start to get interesting right after I’m gone.

I’m so thirsty. I tried to make this clear to my visitor, I tried to convince her to just go outside and bring me some snow, but she just nods her head and stands at the foot of the bed, or sits on an invisible chair next to the fire.

I’m going to put this notebook in a plastic bag and seal it in my waterproof emergency chest with the other great books, Shakespeare, Milton, Bukowski. Maybe in a million years a thaw will come and the chest will float and bob in a warm blue sea under a yellow and loving sun, to be found and marveled at.

I must remember my teachings. What a gift this is, this adversity. A gift of learning. How to live and feel my system shutting down. How to die with eyes open, mind clear, with skill.

She sits with me, witnessing. I worry for her. Soon she will have to sit alone, and where will she go? I don’t mean to abandon her. She taps her wrist gently, pauses, taps more firmly. Tough room.

I would like to shake her hand.

I will not say goodbye.

I will hear the glaciers rumbling in.

The clocks have all wound down.

There is no more time.

All wounds.

Limbo.

I’m not sure when I died. Or if I did, really. No, no, I’m sure I did. I really need to stop second-guessing myself like that, stop waffling, stop being so wishy-washy. That’s one of the things my counselor said I should work on if I