So he sits and nods, thinking, waiting for the pain in his lungs to ease, for the oxygen blowing into his nose to loosen the knots in his chest. He sits, dreaming of sleep. Across the carpeted hall, his four children have said their prayers and greeted the sandman. Around the bedroom doors, strands of Christmas lights wink. The lamp in the bathroom is on.
Soft snores crawl like whispers downstairs.
Barbara Weddle is listening. She has always been a night owl. It's her time to think, read the Bible, wash the dishes, make lesson plans for her children's home schooling. It's also her time to worry. Unless experimental drugs or a supernatural event stops the tumors growing in Bill's lungs, this will be his last Christmas.