Placing a pillow between her legs, I notice that these too are ice-cold, and not until I run my hand up over her knees do I feel any of the life-giving warmth of blood. When I am finished, I pull a chair up beside the bed to face her and, taking her free hand between mine, again notice the long, thin fingers. Graceful. I wonder briefly if she has any family, and then I see that there are neither flowers, nor pictures of rainbows and butterflies drawn by children, nor cards. There is no hint in the room anywhere that this is a person who is loved. As though she is a mind reader, Mrs. Clark answers my thoughts and quietly tells me, "I sent my family home tonight didn't want them to see."