Chapter 73: Piper

Walking down the halls of the third hospital in our tour around the state, I have to say this is, thus far, my least favorite. The lights seem dim; the walls need a fresh coat of paint, there are no people in the halls, it's unnervingly quiet. Nothing about this place screams life, and I inaudibly wonder how many people simply come here to die. It doesn't even have the typical sanitized smell-it's musty, like old people.

I peek in the open doors as we follow the attendant pushing Moby's wheelchair to his room. Maybe it's simply because people who have strokes are typically elderly, or considerably older than Moby, but everyone I see looks like a wax statue. There's no color in their skin; no movement in their bodies; no one is visiting with them. They're just all old. Decrepit. Waiting to perish.

I can't leave Moby here. There's no way I can leave my bright, vibrant husband to die inside these walls. His spirit will never make it here, not for any length of time much less the four