"You look worn right out, Mrs. Munroe. Go home and rest. We'll call you if there's any change," said the young doctor. 

"Yes," said Jane Munroe with dignified resignation. "I think it's time." She rose from her seat in the institutional grey chair, ever inch of her sagging with weariness. She collected her well-worn, but immaculately clean, cream-coloured purse from the table beside the hospital bed, clutching tightly to the familiar smooth firmness of the handles. 

"You have my number?" she asked. 

"I practically know it by heart," he said sympathetically, though Jane could see signs of fatigue on his young face as well. Jane patted his elbow in thanks and stole one more glance at her husband, Chester, the tubes and machinery connected to him more animated than he was, before leaving him alone in the room. 

Her mind stayed with her husband as she walked the familiar path from his room to the parking lot. She did not notice the familiar ache in her back and hips that followed her for hours after sitting too long in a hard chair. Her sensible flats clicked dully on the dry concrete as she walked past the rectangular green sign pointing to the area in which she used to park before selling her car a few weeks ago. Though her health was as good as any 73-year old's had a right to be, she had told her daughters that her eyesight was too far gone to drive safely anymore. 

Jane felt quite safe waiting for the bus at the stop in front of the hospital, though she rode it at all hours. At night it was kept brightly lit. The floodlights were off, now, and the golden sunlight of a late afternoon in autumn shone weakly down on her. The bus arrived, groaning to a halt under a fog of diesel fumes, ten minutes later, and took Jane to her stop in a quiet neighbourhood a half-block from her cozy, two-bedroom house. 

She entered the silence of the house and put away her coat and shoes, patting her chin-length hair down where it had been ruffled by the wind. Her hair had been light brown when she was young, but it had nearly all faded to a soft grey. She didn't mind. It suited her warm grey eyes, which were still large and bright, despite the fan of wrinkles in their corners.  

Dr. Henry has seemed quite certain that there would be no change for a while, but Jane took the cordless phone from its cradle in the linoleum-and-melamine kitchen and brought it with her to the flowered couch in the living room. The green vines of the wallpaper had faded in the years since Chester had hung he paper, and the dark brown wood-stain had faded away from the edges of the low, rectangular coffee table. Jane saw nothing but her husband's face. 

She had been in love with Chester for more than fifty years now, fifty good years. He had been in love with her for two years more, according to him. He had been sweet to her, then fun, then passionate. It had been more than fifty years since they first...well. 

Jane remembered the moment that a white-capped nurse had placed her first-born baby girl, red-faced, screaming, and heart-breakingly beautiful, into Jane's arms a bare eight and a half months after her wedding day. Jane had been planning a December wedding, with bridesmaids in festive red gowns and white, fur-trimmed gloves. But Jane's mother, who had had four sisters, as well as two daughters before Jane, recognized Jane's distracted grin and far-away eyes, and prudently insisted on an October wedding. 

She was right, too, thought Jane, one corner of her mouth quirking upwards. 

Jane wondered if Chester would make it to their actual wedding anniversary. The day they had wed, Jane had enjoyed getting all dressed up and making her vows in front of their family and friends, but it was the earlier, more private exchange of breathless promises  that had sealed Chester and her together in her mind. 

Her vision blurred, and she realized that her eyes were filling with tears. She scrubbed them away furiously with a clean and folded tissue from her sleeve. She hated sitting still. She almost never slept any more. She was tired enough, but lying in bed, alone in the dark with her thoughts, waiting for sleep was the worst part of her day. 

Well then, thought Jane, as my mother always used to say, 'When worried, clean something.' Jane stood up, immediately feeling better, or less bad, at least. Sticking the cordless phone into her pocket, she threw herself into her chores. Moving as quickly as she could, which was not as fast as it had been in years past, Jane tried to hurry away from her thoughts. 

She gathered up all the dirty laundry in the house, including the sheets from her bed, and started a load in the washing machine. She washed, dried, and put away the dishes, which were mostly coffee mugs. She wondered briefly when she had last eaten, but she did not feel hungry, and the thought swirled away like the soap suds down the drain. 

She swept the kitchen and hallway, emptied all the waste baskets, and threw away the uneaten left-overs from the fridge, as well as any food that was near is expiry date, including the milk. Taking a moment to catch her breath and wipe the dampness from her forehead with the back of her sleeve, she stood considering the fruit in the fruit bowl on the counter. She stuffed it into the garbage, as well as the half-loaf of bread on the counter. She sighed at the waste, but it was just going to spoil.

Slowly, so as not to aggravate the recurring ache in the shoulder she had broken two winters back, she hauled the garbage bag to the garage, which still smelled of motor oil and Chester's gas-powered lawn mower. Jane dropped her bag into a wheeled trash can and shut the lid tight. The wheels squeaked and chattered as they rolled down the driveway to the curb. It was a day early for the garbage to be put out for pick-up, but she didn't think anyone would be bothered by it.  

The sun had long since set, and Jane shivered in the damp chill of early evening. She lingered for a moment, pulling the night air deeply into her lungs, feeling the slight burn as it hit her warm airways. Tipping her head back, she saw that the first stars were out. Only the very brightest could be seen in the middle of the city. She savoured their small, tenacious light, looking at them with wonder and gratitude, as if seeing them for the first time. This might be the final night that she and Chester were both alive under the same stars.  

Feeling fragile, as though she herself were no more substantial than starlight, Jane went back into the house. It seemed even more still and quiet than it had only moments before. Icy worry went through her and tears threatened. Then she realized why she was bothered.  

Jane, you ninny, she chided herself, The washing machine stopped. That's all. After moving the wet laundry into the dryer, Jane put a pen and paper down onto her square melamine kitchen table, leaves folded down to save space. She settled herself down to write.