I said, “What kind of cancer got Patty?”

“Pancreatic. By the time she was diagnosed, it had eaten her liver. A couple of weeks before, I noticed her looking worn down, but Patty on two cylinders was better than most people on full-burn.”

He blinked. “When I saw she was jaundiced, I insisted she get it checked out. Three weeks later she was gone.”

“Oh, man.”

“Nazi war criminals make it to ninety, she dies.” He massaged one hand with the other. “I always thought of Patty as one of those intrepid settler women who could hunt bison or whatever, skin, butcher, cook, turn the leftovers into useful objects.”

He pulled at one eyelid. “All those years working with her and I couldn’t do a damn thing to change the outcome. I got her the best oncologist I know and made sure Joe Michelle-our chief of anesthesiology-managed her pain personally.”

“Did you spend much time with her at the end?”

“Not as much as I should’ve,” he said. “I’d show up, we’d make a little small talk, she’d kick me out. I’d argue to make sure she meant it. She meant it.”

He plucked at his mustache. “All those years she was my main RN, but apart from occasional coffee in the cafeteria, we never socialized, Alex. When I took over, I was an all-work, no-play jerk. My staff managed to show me the error of my ways and I got more socially oriented. Holiday parties, keeping a list of people’s birthdays, making sure there were cakes and flowers, all that morale-boosting stuff.” He smiled. “One year, at the Christmas party, Big Guy agreed to be Santa.”