We're both sitting outside on a wrought iron bench, overlooking the grounds at Avera.  It's still only mid-afternoon, but already a hint of fog is drifting in off the coast, and the air has grown cooler.  I wish I had thought to bring a jacket, but of course he doesn't notice.  Doesn't care.

"So how long have I been in there?  Like that?"

"The accident was just under a year ago.  They transferred you over about six months back."

He frowns.  "They?"

"Your parents," I explain.  "You didn't have any kind of will, or directive.  They've been left calling the shots."

His hand sweeps out, taking it all in.  The swath of lawn, the moss rock boulders, the exquisitely trimmed Japanese maples.  "There's no way they could afford this."

"But DoQuest can.  Seems they're covering whatever the insurance doesn't handle.  Plus they've set up this trust people can donate to, people there at work, or whatever.  You've even got this special Facebook page."

He makes a sound, not quite laughter.  "Great."

"At least there won't be any bills waiting when you get out."

"And will I?  Get out?"

It's the question I've been dreading.  The same one I've been asking myself.    "I haven't talked to any doctors, any of the people in charge.  Medical confidentiality and all that.  The impression I get is that nobody knows.  That each case, each person is different.  You could wake up tomorrow.  Ask for a bowl of Froot Loops."

Or you could just lie there, lost to the world, until you finally die.

As we watch, a small service vehicle, one of those green John Deere electrics, pulls into the nearest lot.  The driver and the man riding shotgun, both dark-skinned and wearing identical grey coveralls, climb out, grab a pair of rakes, and do their best to look busy, gathering up invisible leaves that aren't really there.  A gentle lilt of Spanish washes up the hill.

"Look, I'm sorry," I hear myself say.

"Sorry?"

"For all this.  For the way I acted.  I know I was an asshole sometimes.  A lot of times.  But I thought you were just something I made up.  I never figured you were real."

"Don't worry about it."  He lifts his left hand, pokes at it with his right index finger, and then smiles, as if amused by the way it all works, how you'd swear it was flesh finding flesh.  "So do you think all of them, all those people in there with me, do they all have someone like you?  Someone they visit?  Or are you and me just freaks, some weird anomaly?"

"I guess we could go back and ask."

Now we're both smiling, in spite of ourselves.  Like they say, it beats the alternative.

And then, as I watch, his face grows more somber.  "It's going to take me a while to wrap my head around all this.  To figure out where I stand.  Or not stand is more like it."  He pauses a second, proud of his little joke.  "But anyway, in the meantime, I might have a few favors to ask."

I wait for him to go on.

"I'm hoping that maybe you'll let me keep visiting."  He quickly raises his hand, ready to fend off some protest I haven't even made.  "No, not like before.  I promise I'll only show up when you want me there.  When I'm invited.  Because the thing is, you're all I have left.  You're my eyes, my ears.  My way back into the world.  Without this, this whatever it is we share, I'm just a body rotting away in there."

I know I should look up, meet his gaze, but instead just keep staring at the ground.  "Yes.  Of course.  Of course you can visit.  Whenever you want."

"Thanks.  That means a lot."  He pauses.  Takes a deep breath, then releases it in a sigh.  "And then there's Claire."

"Claire," I repeat back to him, keeping my own voice flat.  Neutral.

"I'm sure she's ... what's that phrase? ... 'moved on'?  Probably hooked up with Scott, or that UPS driver who was always hitting on her.  But the thing is, she never knew I was coming back to be with her.  To give it another shot.  And maybe even now, even after all this time, that might mean something to her.  And if so, maybe you could tell her.  On my behalf, so to speak."  When I finally glance up, see his expression, I have to look away again.  "Unless, you know, you think that would be opening up old wounds or something."

"Let me think on it," I tell him.

"Sure.  Take your time.  It's not like I'm going anywhere."

By now the two men have finished their charade, with both rakes stashed back in the truck.  The older of the two, convinced he's the boss, examines the mulched bed, picks up a last errant leaf, and then climbs behind the wheel, where he waits until his partner joins him.  Then, with a soft crunch of tires over gravel, they're gone, leaving us alone once more.

"And there is one more thing."

I nod back at him.

"There's a chance, maybe a good one, that once I think things through, give it all time to sink in, I might decide that's it.  Time to pull the plug.  But obviously I can't.  I'd need someone to do it for me."

By now I'm no longer nodding.

"Look," he insists, his voice almost shrill, "I'm just trying to be realistic.  My mom could never let herself do it, and my dad, he'll just roll right over, go along with whatever she wants.  So that leaves you.  I don't know how you'd work it with the law and all that, but I'm not worried.  You'd find a way."

He takes his hand, the same hand that was so real, so solid just a few moments ago, and reaches out for mine.  But instead of a touch, all I feel is a tingle.  A shadow on my skin.  

Feeling that shadow, I can't help but think.  Think about all the seedlings I've culled, the weeds I've yanked, the plants I've torn out of the ground.  The fallen bird that needed a little help in the end.  The squirrel by the side of the road.  And those awful times, each one etched in my soul, when I've taken my friend, my faithful companion, on that last trip to the vet's, and held her in my arms, and listened to her purr, and watched as the man in the clean white smock filled his hypodermic.  Finding death, finding your own, all that does is kill you.  But being death, being its accomplice, can make you want to die.

"I don't know," I finally say.  "I don't know if I could.  And I probably won't until, unless, you ask."

"Then lets hope I never do."

And with those words, his hand is gone.  The bench beside me empty.  All that remains is the cool afternoon, the dappled sunlight, and a slight, residual tingle on the skin of my own hand.  For a moment I just sit there, staring at the black wrought iron, the weathered slats of wood, and then I finally stand up.

One of us still has a long drive home.

One of us doesn't.