Stubbins’ mottled hands shook with anticipation as his wife, Cornelia, lit the cigarette, then held it to his lips. Stubbins placed his fingers over a hollow nub of plastic that jutted from a stoma at his trachea. The cigarette tip sparked and ran. Blue smoke trickled out of the plastic nub. ‘Another puff,’ Stubbins croaked on the exhale. ‘No more,’ Cornelia snapped. ‘Doctor’d have my head if he knew.’ ‘Won’t ya love me when I’m gone?’ he asked in a froggy voice. Cornelia would not meet his gaze. Then she nodded and snuffled, ‘That won’t never die, Oscar.’ ‘Then give us another puff, bunny girl.’ She held the cigarette to his lips again. The cigarette glowed hot. His eyes closed in the pleasure of it and then he chortled into a hacking liquid cough. He twisted and groaned in the wheelchair. Cornelia jumped up in alarm. She fitted a thin hose into the stoma. There was a whooshing noise and a slug of bile came sucking up the hose. Stubbins hacked again, then breathed easier.
