Janet gazed at him for a long time. Even in the dim light of the bar, she could see the pain in his expression. Beneath the erosion alcohol had carved on his features, the remains of the boyish looks that had first attracted her to him were still visible. She reached out as if to take the money, but her hand fell back to her side and she shook her head. "It's not the money, Ted," she said, her anger finally draining away. "It's you. I don't want your money. I want you." Turning away from her husband, Janet fled the dim bar, emerging into the light and heat of the morning.

At least I didn't cry, she told herself as she got back in the Toyota. At least I didn't let any of them see me cry.

But as she drove away, the tears she'd managed to control in the bar finally overcame her, running freely down her face.

Ted Conway watched his wife hurry out of the bar, then pushed his empty glass away, stood, and shoved his wallet back in his pocket. But before he could start back to his office, his eye fell on the empty glass.

He looked at it for a long time, knowing he should leave it where it was and go back to work. Instead he sat back down on the stool and nudged the empty glass toward Tony. "I guess one more won't hurt, will it?"

Cora Conway had been awaiting death for more years than she could clearly remember. Long ago, she supposed, there must have been a time when she welcomed life, but memories of those times had long since faded away, disappearing into the gray fog that seemed to wrap itself more closely around her with every day that passed.

Not that Cora kept track of the days anymore, for each day was just like the day that had gone before, and would be just like the day that was to come. She would awaken in her bed, here in the room that was so familiar to her that if one morning she woke up blind, the image of her surroundings would be so vivid that the loss of her sight would make no difference.

The nightstand was on the left.

The table with the reading lamp and the music box was on the right.

If she got up from her bed and moved toward the door to the hallway outside her room-a door at the end of a short corridor that pierced the exact center of the north wall of her room-she would pass two other doors.

The one to the left led to the closet that contained her clothing.

The one on the right led to the bathroom she shared with the person in the room next to hers.

She had never seen the person in the room next to hers, had no idea if it was a man or a woman.

Nor did she care.

There was a window in the south wall of her room, but Cora had no need to look out of it: it faced another window a few feet away, beyond which was a room that she was quite certain was a mirror image of her own.

Once, long ago, she'd wondered if that room contained a woman who was a mirror image of herself, and the next time she'd looked in the mirror above the dresser that sat against the wall opposite the foot of her bed, she'd wondered if she might really be looking through a window into another apartment. She'd watched the woman in the mirror grow old, watched the face lose the beauty it had once had. She'd stopped touching her own face at all, clinging to the belief that the image in the mirror couldn't be hers.

That was why she never looked at her hands, or her feet, or any other part of herself.

That was why, day after day, she lay on her back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

And waited as the days passed.

After Cora woke up, the woman with the breakfast tray would come, and then she would sit up, lean against the pillows, and eat her breakfast, careful not to glance at the woman in the mirror.

She would lie on her back until the boy brought lunch.

She would lie on her back until another woman brought dinner.

She spoke to no one; if she spoke, she would have to hear her own voice, which she had no desire to do.

She would go to sleep, and then wake up, and one day was exactly like the one that had passed, and the one to come.

She had no idea when the fog had begun to gather. She had merely become aware of it one day, a grayish mist at the far reaches of her consciousness. She hadn't thought much about it, but every now and then she'd noticed that the fog was creeping closer. Its gray was darkening, and it was beginning to blur the images of her world.

The fog, she thought, was death edging close, and so she began to prepare herself, begging forgiveness for sins grown so remote and indistinct that she had forgotten what those sins might have been. As the fog grew denser, she began to look for death, began to seek it out, searching the gray mists for the dark spirit she knew would soon emerge.

This morning she had finally seen it.

She'd caught her first glimpse of it by accident, for as she'd risen from her bed to make her way to the bathroom, she'd let her eyes stray toward the mirror over the dresser. Though she'd turned sharply away, something in the mirror had seeped into her memory, and when she came out of the bathroom a little while later, she went to the mirror and peered into it.

The woman she saw in the glass bore no resemblance to herself: the clouded eyes were sunk deep in a mass of wrinkled skin, and only a few wisps of whitish hair covered the blotchy scalp. But it wasn't the image of the dying woman that had caught Cora's attention; it was something that loomed behind her.

Though she'd never seen it before, she recognized it right away.

Death was finally emerging from the mist, coming for her.

In her mind, Cora had always seen the figure of Death clad in black, its eyes glowering coldly out from a skeletal face all but lost in the folds of its hood. But the angel who now approached her was nothing like the image she'd conjured in her imagination. This spirit wore no hood. The folds of its shroud flowed gracefully around it in shimmering waves of silver, and a radiant smile bathed its face in a golden glow. Its arms were spread wide as if to enfold her in a comforting embrace. The horror Cora had always felt toward death-the certain knowledge that whatever eternity might await her would be far worse than the years she'd already endured-began to crumble as the luminous figure approached.

Instinctively, her fingers moved to the tiny golden cross that hung from a thin chain around her neck, and she traced its delicate shape as she recalled for the first time in countless years the words of the person who had placed it upon her: "This will protect you. Never let it go until the angel comes for you."

Cora had not understood then, had never thought of Death as an angel who would deliver her from the weight of her years, but only as a harbinger of the punishment yet to come.

Now, as the figure moved closer, the swirling dark fog seemed to lift.

Returning to her bed, she sat on its edge and pulled open the top drawer of the nightstand. It was filled almost to overflowing with the detritus of a nearly forgotten life-scraps of paper with meaningless words scrawled on them, coupons torn from newspapers and magazines, small gifts brought by people whose names and faces had long since fallen from her memory. The drawer jammed halfway out, then crashed to the floor when Cora jerked it free. Falling to her knees, she rummaged through the litter on the carpet, her fingers searching for the single object that she knew-with sudden, piercing clarity-she must find.

When the nurse found her, Cora was still on the floor.

She tried to explain what she was looking for, but the words wouldn't come, and when the nurse lifted her back onto the bed, Cora was unable to resist. She struggled against the straps the nurse bound her with, but they were too strong for her.