“ask Ellie.”

  those words were written carefully on an ordinary sheet of white paper, folded, and tucked within the clasp of his left fist. he appeared to be asleep, but his stillness was too perfect.

  “ask Ellie.”

  just three days before, we’d seen him move his hips and legs and arms like the freest person alive. I was there. we flowed like two entangled spirits until the weight of the world, and our sweat, forced us to break. On rare occasions, he’d look at me, like really look at me. Then, he’d smile a smile so forced, I’d ask myself, “what’s he hiding?”

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  “ask Ellie.”

  they listened, intensely, for his body to produce the normal rhythms and hums of the living, only to hear a thunderous pounding echoing from their own chests. they soon declared his body lifeless on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

  that coming Friday he was poised to graduate from medical school as Dr. Peter Cheznik—general surgeon-in-training. he said he was nervous about leaving. I told him I was drained from enduring the crucible of medical school. he said it was the same for him, but I knew he was lying. somehow, Pete had managed come out the other side of this shit more gentle and graceful than ever before, and I thought, if there was anyone who could handle the brutality of residency, it was Pete.