On the fifteen-mile drive to Mercy Hospital, I stay silent, same as Nicole. After ten years of marriage, I don’t have to ask why. We park in a handicapped spot—our first time with that blue sign waving—and walk up. With the quick, final steps of people on an unwanted mission, we trek through freshly-painted hallways, winding through nephrology, ophthalmology, osteoarthritis—elderly men stumbling out, with wives or wifeless, as if struck by the suddenness of disease—then pace to my speech therapist’s third-floor office at the end of the hall. My mind’s packed with clouds, dark roads, endless water.