He knew that as soon as he woke up. Jeremy recognized the hospital. He had the same room. Or if it was a different one, it was identical. He was old, and his body had stopped fighting. He couldn’t dispel the thick vapors weaving through his brain, asphyxiating his thoughts, interrupting his vision, and drowning out sounds. He wasn’t the motionless body washed by unknown hands. He was the mind that entered and left, searching for direction, doubting his own awareness. The nurses wished him a happy birthday, like a child. One of them gave him the information he was expecting: “In one year, Mr. Delègue, you’ll celebrate eighty years on earth.” Between two absences, Jeremy made some calculations and situated each of his actions in the short flashes of his life. A life of nine days. So much had happened. Few moments had been happy, but those that were still possessed the breath of passion for Jeremy. Nine days. And so much sacrificed hope. The nurses dressed him in a charcoal suit, white shirt, and a burgundy tie.
