THE LIGHTS FROM THE AMBULANCE filled Mr. Felter’s room — red, blue, white, over-and-over — bathing his poster for Woodstock, the photo of him with Stevie Ray Vaughan and the first six-string guitar he ever owned.
He heard the rattle of a metal cart in the hall outside his door and the soft suck of the attendants’ white sneakers scuttling on the linoleum. Mr. Felter knew: another one was dead. Another empty bed in God’s waiting room.
Mr. Felter shifted his body, careful not to dislodge the thin, clear tube that snaked into his forearm. The tube was connected to a grim device that would determine for itself when Mr. Felter needed a dollop of painkiller. The drug had a trademark name, but Mr. Felter had forgotten it. It didn’t matter; it was morphine. And it didn’t kill the pain as much as lull it into a snarling crouch, poised to strike again when his mind cleared and the cancer continued gnawing on his liver.
The ambulance left, and the room was dark again, except for green pinpoints indicating his devices were still alive. They’re more alive than me, Mr. Felter thought; they’ll be alive after I’m dead.
The door opened, allowing a block of fluorescent light into the room. A woman nurse in scrubs walked in to record the readings from the panel above Mr.
