to make them easier to move around: May's special bed, IV posts, a TV perched on the dresser, her wheelchair folded in the corner. The window took up most of one wall. Outside it was still windy, though not as bad as it had been. Tully's tree still grazed against the glass. Boone found the bed's control pad and pressed a button, bringing May into a sitting position. Then he arranged the silverware, though it would go unused. He tore open the cellophane package and removed a plastic syringe, then screwed one end of the clear, rubbery tube into its fitting. He lifted the hem of May's nightgown. A white plastic plug protruded from her abdomen. Boone flipped open its lid, and fitted the other end of the tube into it. He gave the can another shake, and, holding the syringe upright, poured the formula into its wide mouth. White liquid pooled at its base and threaded down the clear tube to the portal. The aroma of the breakfast Boone had prepared wafted off the platter. May breathed it in. "Is it close enough?" Boone asked. "Ah," she said. Her arms lay limp at her side. The flesh was spongy, slack from disuse. Where she got injections, she bruised, and the bruises lingered; patches of blood lurked under the surface like fish lazing in a filmy pond. The last food May had actually tried to chew was the pasta and calamari he made for them. Boone had cooked it soft