Not a memory; not a ghost; not a disembodied voice. It's her: Gina, surrounded by beeping instruments and IV drips. Her body is less than flesh, but more than bone. A gown hangs from her jagged shoulders and disappears — alongside countless cables and tubes — beneath bunched thermal blankets. What remains of her hair sits smooth against her scalp, brushed and gathered into a ponytail.

Waylon lurches toward her. How?

"I'll let you two have the stage." Albert says. A pause, then heels clack, fading toward the door.

Gina raises a hand is if to catch the sound. "Wait, Albert." She tugs on a bundle of cables. "Get the nurses to come take these damn things off, will you."

Fabric swishes. Albert, making some grand gesture — their unworn sleeves sweeping after their arms. "As you wish." They say.

Waylon hears the exchange of words, but each syllable falls from his ears. Nothing worth committing to memory. He staggers to Gina's side. There's an armchair near her bed, facing her. Crisp, clean, deliberately placed. Everything according to Albert's machinations. Waylon doesn't care: he collapses into it.

Sharp ridges carve through Gina's brow. She darts her eyes between him and the revolver in his lap. "You'll be explaining that, then."

Heart tremoring, he claps her hand between both of his. "I thought I lost you."

"Little thing like that'd get you to kill someone?"

"They— Albert— a lawyer came to see me in prison, Gina. They told me you were dead. Albert had a guy in with me and they used that as a cue. I learn you die, then this guy—"

The door bursts open and nurses flood around him. They descend upon Gina like hyenas: jerking out needles, ripping away cables, and rolling up tubes. In mere moments, the equipment is gone. The aids, too, save for one. A man the shape of a soup can. He leans in near Gina's ear.

She flinches away, eyes bulging — threatening to shoot lasers. "Space?"

He refuses to back off. Instead, he whispers something.

Nodding, she wipes her ear down with a corner of her blanket. "Fine, fine. That's plenty. Didn't have to make my ear all humid about it. Now shoo."

At that, the stocky aid darts away. The door closes. They're alone again.

Between Waylon's hands, Gina's is weightless. He clings to it, afraid she'll slip away. Float beyond his reach. "What'd that mean? What's plenty?" He says.

She adds her other hand to the pile, patting his. "Nothing you need to worry about."

The stampede of aids replays in his mind. Blood running cold, he sets his jaw. "You don't need the IVs anymore? The monitors?"

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Her eyes blur and slip from him. He can practically see her mind working: a mad dash for a change of topic; a false answer; a way out.

She surrenders a sigh. "What were you thinking, involving yourself with someone like Albert? Gone and got in trouble for my sake. Even after I told you — clearly, mind — to let me be." With another stretch of silence, she darts her eyes back to him and forces a scowl. "I'm four episodes behind, you know. What am I doing to do? Catch up?"

His blood freezes. "You're joking."

"Wouldn't about this."

"What do you mean? You're here, I'm here; we can still figure this out."

"Didn't realize you had a panacea in your other pocket. Cost a couple cigarettes, did it?" She falls back into her pillow and lets her eyes close. "I'm done, Waylon. It's been too long. About time you've had a break."

Warmth flushes his eyes, but — blinking furiously — he beats back the urge. "You think I want that?"

She pierces him through with a glare. "You think I want you running yourself ragged? When's the last time you slept? And I mean good; more than a wink."

A good question. It forces him to pause, to think. Before prison? Before Gina got sick?

But that's not right. Much further back: before that officer knocked at his — no, at their — apartment door. Three polite taps is all it was. Enough to wake him from his mid-movie nap in the living room. By then, Mr. Wonka was expressing wistful disinterest in the plight of a shrunken, television-obsessed child.

A common worry watch and just as common to fall asleep during.

That's the answer. That's the last real rest he remembers, back before Phil's face started to fade.

Waylon can't tell Gina, though. He studies her face, committing each wrinkle to memory. "A few nights ago. Can't do much else in prison besides sleep."

"And you still look like shit. That thousand-yard stare of yours isn't helping." She says.

"It's nothing." He rises from his seat and starts to step away. "I don't need a break, Gina. I'll just ask around. This place is fancy enough. There's got to be someone here that can—"

With surprising strength, she jerks his arm — and him — back. "I didn't stick around to argue with you. Look at me: there's no fixing this, Waylon. We're out of time. We say goodbye here while I've still got some skin on my bones. That's what I want. No regrets; go out with everything said. You leave now, we won't see each other again."

Waylon's gut twists; it writhes away from a truth told in translucent skin, skeletal hands, and tremoring limbs. This isn't part of the plan. This isn't how it's supposed to go.

They stare, gazes locked. Iron in hers; pain in his. He collapses back into his chair.

"Well?" She spits out, "Get on with it. Like hell I'm going first."

His eyes are warm; heavy. With an absent finger, he traces pronounced veins running along the back of her hand. "I— I don't know what to say."

"Something like, 'You're the mom I never had', or 'I love you.' You've watched plenty enough movies to figure it out. Haven't you?"

"Not one good enough for this."

Snuffling, Gina slaps tears off her cheeks. "God. Got the gall to make an old woman cry?"

Waylon's mind and face twist; tears break free. "O-Only the ones that deserve it." He says.

"Shithead." She sniffs once more. "Come on, treat me right. Sing a few praises and—" Her body shudders; her eyes go distant and roll. She grasps at Waylon as if searching for purchase. "Ooo— that— that's not right. Head's swimming."

He scrambles up from his chair and hovers over her. "N-No, not yet. This can't happen. Please."

"Don't think we've got a choice. Listen. Before I go—"

Cupping her head, Waylon tweaks his neck and calls out toward the room's closed doors. "Nurses! Help, she's—"

Her patience snaps. "Shut it! Hard to keep words straight. Before I— before I go—" She caresses his cheek and forces their eyes to meet. "I— sorry. I'm sorry about all this."

He furls his fingers around hers. "No, you can't say that. Don't apologize."

"I have to. I never wanted to be a— a burden, Waylon." Her words grow more sparse; faint. "Never wanted— never wanted to— make you feel stuck. I— I'm sorry. Listen: don't be alone too long, okay?"