That night I sat with Noah and Sam in their chamber. Noah, lying on the bed beside him – holding him close when he was seized by shivering or moving away to sponge him cool when he thrashed as though burning up – had asked me to bring my rosary.
So, I told my decades and waited vigil, feeling I really should not be there with them. It seemed such a private thing. Yet what else could I do? If Sam had been of my faith a priest would be with him now, administering the last rites. I understood what comfort that brought to those who watched a life ebbing away. And how usual it was for the recipient to be insensible just as Sam was now. No. More often the comfort offered was for those left behind, knowing all sins were absolved at the last.
And how could I not recall that other night I had spe
