"This is stupid," Boris said as he tried to search through a small, plastic blue box containing dozens upon dozens of beads of different sizes, shapes and colors, "Where's all the goddamned brown?"

"I think Alice took them," Carol said, sniffling as she blew her nose into her kerchief before turning back to the task at hand."

"God, that's disgusting," Boris said, shying away from the snot rag.

"Oh, I'm sorry, does my bodily function bother you?" Carol asked.

"How're we doing over here?" a tall, lanky man with blonde facial hair, wearing a tucked in long sleeved blue shirt with a pin on it that read 'Alex' asked as he stopped at their table, "Everything going okay? Some of these are tricky to get right, so if anyone needs any help-"

"Yeah, could you ask Alice to stop taking all the goddamned brown? Or, if she won't, maybe kill her?" Boris asked, making Carol snicker.

"Just pick a different color, asshole," Alice said from the end of the table, forcing Boris to groan and look down the table towards her.

"Don't make me come down there!" he shouted.

"Like you could, Walker Texas Ranger," Alice shouted back, and Boris grimaced, looking at his sad crafts project in front of him, muttering.

"It's a cane," he said under his breath.

"What is the point of this activity?" Larry asked, "Nobody is ever going to come get it, trust me, and I certainly don't need some goddamned beads on colored string to make me feel better. Is there a point to this other than wasting an afternoon?"

"They make us do this shit because it 'keeps us vital', keeps our minds active," Carol said, and Alex grinned, touching her shoulder.

"That's exactly right," he said, "We wouldn't want you guys to slow down, we want to help keep you sharp and active. That's why we have these activity days."

"So we're not forced labor making cheap knock off wallets?" Boris asked.

"No, that's the elementary school down the street," Carol replied, the two of them laughing.

Alex eventually went back to his rounds, checking in on other tables and for a bit nobody said a thing. Boris was having a lot of trouble getting his beads threaded, and kept gritting his teeth due to the frustration. After a few seconds, he looked over at Carol and tried to follow her technique, which was to lick the end of the string and then thread it, but that just tasted awful, and finally he heard Whittle standing beside him.

"Need some help?" she asked happily, kneeling down beside him, "I used to do these sorts of things in girl scouts. I'm an expert threader."

"This is so mind numbingly boring, so if their intention is to keep our minds active, I think it's backfiring," Boris said, and Whittle chuckled as he continued, "So you were in the girl scouts?"

"Yeah, for a few years. I was only in it because my parents made me pick an extracurricular activity to do and it was that or something like soccer, and I sure as hell wasn't going to play a sport. I mean, I like playing sports by myself, tennis or something, but not team stuff."

"God dammit!" Alice shouted from down the table, "The whole string just snapped, goddamned beads just went everywhere!"

"That's what you get, thief!" Boris called down to her.

"Just die already!" Alice called back.

"You wish, Wrinkled In Time," Boris replied, before turning back to Whittle who had successfully threaded a few beads and was now halfway done; he sighed, and rested his cheek on his fist, posted up on his elbow, "So...I never did any sorts of crafts or anything."

"You weren't a creative kid?" she asked.

"I...I wrote, a little, I guess, but nothing else," Boris said, "I wrote poetry every now and then."

"You wrote poetry?" Carol asked.

"Was I talking to you?"

"You're talking by me," Carol said, shrugging, "What's the difference, really?"

"Proximity doesn't dictate participation," Boris said annoyed, turning back to Whittle, "But yeah, I did some poetry when I was younger and-"

"This is bullshit!" a voice finally shouted as a man, Thomas Lederman from the 4th floor, slammed his cane end on the table, "This is bullshit and we all know it! Fucking crafts?! Are you kidding me?! Fucking arts and crafts?! All the things I've accomplished, all the things I've achieved, and my last years are spent doing goddamned scrapbooking?! You've gotta be kidding me! I've won war medals for fucks sake! This is an insult!"

Nobody said a word, but a nurse and Alex finally started to approach Thomas.

"Would you like to go back to your room and lay down?" the nurse asked.

"I don't want to lay down! I want to do something that isn't a waste of time! It's bad enough I served my country, gave my family the best years of my life and in the end I get stuck here, forgotten, ignored! But no, you gotta give me some stupid fucking beads and string and..."

Thomas put his hand to his chest and started to sit down, his breathing getting labored. Alex motioned to get a doctor, but before the nurse was even down the hall, Thomas looked down at the box containing beads in front of him and fell face first in it. When they finally got him out of the room, it was revealed he'd suffered a mild stroke from raising his blood pressure, and they let the crafts activity get out early. Boris and Whittle headed out of the room and down the hall together.

"I mean, the guy's got a point," Boris said under his breath.

"I'm scared of getting old," Whittle said, "I've read up on my entire family history, and all the things everyone has suffered from, and I'm trying so fucking hard to make sure none of that happens to me, and you know it's all for nothing. Exercise? Dieting? You die either way."

"Life is a terrifying series of consequences you have little to no control over," Boris said, hands in his coat pockets, "But in the end, there's something to be said for having lived a full life, despite winding up in a place like this."

"You think?" Whittle asked.

"Sure," Boris said, "...all the trash has to go someplace, right?" and she smirked at him.

                                                                                               ***

When Boris wound up back in his room, he sat down on the bed and sighed. He put his hands on his knees and hummed to himself as he glanced around at his room and finally went to the closet, opened it up and got on his knees and pulled out a box. He opened it up and it was full of clothes. He did the same to another, this one filled with photos and such. Finally he opened a third box and it was nothing but books, all the same book. He took one out and looked at the cover.

"I Hope This Reaches You & Other Poems by Boris Carlyle"

He opened the book and a photo slid out, landing at his feet. He picked it up and looked at it, his eyes tearing up, and then he stuck it under his mattress before getting up and heading back out into the hall. Boris searched for a bit, trying to find Whittle, but unable to do so, he finally gave up and sat down in the Quiet Room where people went to read. As he sat in a rocking chair, Carol came in, stirring a cup of tea, she motioned at the book with her spoon.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Mmm? Oh, just something I wanted to show Nurse Whittle," he said, "Nothing important."

"Lemme see it," Carol said, taking the book from him, "...you were a published author?"

"Author's a bit generous," Boris said, "But yes I did write that book."

"That's...really cool, Boris," Carol said, sitting on the arm of his chair and reading a passage, "You are the phone call that never comes, the package that is never delivered, the pair of shoes that is never sold; you are here, but unable to be attained, and you like it better that way. That way you always have someone to blame, but I feel the shame, believe me I do, and I would do anything for you, I hope this reaches you."

Carol put the book down and looked at Boris, their eyes meeting.

"That was beautiful," Carol said, "...would you mind if i held onto this and read more of it?"

"No, go...go ahead," Boris said, smiling, trying not to cry, and she thanked him and got up, but as she turned to leave, he said, "Carol?"

"Hmm?"

"...please don't go," he said softly, and she nodded, sitting back down in a chair beside him.

Boris was starting to realize that the things he'd done, the people he'd lost? None of that really mattered now. What mattered now was this, here, the people he did have, the things he was doing. That's what really mattered, and sometimes it took a lot to remember that.

"I got this one for all my years at the company," Burt said, holding the golden hammer and running his thumb over it, smiling, "All those years put in and they give me this as a consolation. A fuckin' gold hammer."

"I've seen the hammer, yeah," Boris said, slouched in a chair in the main activity room, chin rested on his fist, "At least you can kill yourself with it. I guess that's something."

"Probably end up in my grandsons hands," Burt said, "Think about that. Some kids get money, actual valuables. My grandson's gonna get a stupid golden hammer. You want a legacy, Boris? Don't work in the manual labor sector. Houses you build will be torn down, because nothing lasts forever."

Boris sighed and rubbed his eyes as Whittle stopped by his chair and handed him a small cup with some pills in it.

"I know they always told me not to take drugs from strangers, but thank god for you," Boris said as he took the tiny cup from her and she smiled.

"You're getting easier to deal with," Whittle said, as he handed her back the tiny cup.

"Everyone's easier to deal with when they're drugged," Boris said, and she shrugged as she continued on, muttering under her breath, "can't argue with that."

Boris stood up, stretched and walked past Burt, heading down the hall. First he hit the public bathroom, and then afterwards, stopped in the hall to get some water from the fountain. As he finished drinking, he stood upright and looked in the mirror they hung over the fountain. He sighed, running his hand through his thinning hair before heading down the hall to his bedroom. Boris turned the doorknob and opened to see a woman sitting at his desk, looking around. She was in a lovely floral dress with a sunhat, and shoulder length faded blonde hair. He approached cautiously, confused, until she looked at him and she smiled.

"Can I help you?" he asked, "You're in my room."

"I am?" she asked, sighing, "I've been doing that a lot. I'm sorry, please forgive me."

"It's not really a problem, I'm just letting you know," Boris said, sitting on the end of his bed, across from her, scratching the back of his head nervously, "...um...so...come here often?" he asked, and she actually laughed heartily.

"Very funny," she said, "Not to this room specifically, but last few months, I've been going to the wrong room thinking it's mine. Memory, you know, it just starts to go, bit by bit. I'm Leanne," she said, holding her hand out as he smiled, gripping it gently and shaking it.

"Boris," he said, "Are you even in this building? I don't think I've ever really seen you around here."

"No, I'm not, now that you ask. I'm in the 3rd building, across the grounds," she said, "Amazed I could even make it all the way over here, with my leg and everything."

"I mean, you have two, so that should be good enough," Boris said.

She grinned, and lifted up the hem of her dress, revealing her right leg was fake. She knocked on it, making it emit a hollow sound. Boris grinned as he looked from the leg up to her face. She had really dark green eyes, and for a moment, he swore, she could've been her. He quickly shook it from his mind. No. The last thing he needed to do was attach new people to old people. He quickly cleared his throat and coughed.

"So, lost it in some gang fight back in the day, huh?" he asked, pointing at her leg.

"I wish, that'd at least make me more interesting. No, it had to be amputated. Not that interesting of a story, really. But, makes me seem pretty cool to the kids, so it has its pluses. Boris, do you want to walk me back to my building? Just in case I can't make it on my own?" she asked, smiling coyly.

"I'd love to, but I'll have to get my fake feet, so hang on a second," he said, and she chuckled as they got up to leave. As they exited the room and headed down the hall, he could still hear Burt talking to anyone who would listen about his hammer. Boris opened the back door that led into the yards and garden of the facility, putting his hands in his coat pocket afterwards as they walked past people doing their outdoor activities.

"God," Leanne said, nudging him with her elbow and nodding at the quilting table, "I could never imagine doing that. It's so tedious. If I ever pick up a knitting needle, please cut my wrists with it."

"Will do," Boris said.

"I'm holding you to it," she said.

"So Leanne, what got you stuck in the can?" he asked, and she looked at her nails as they walked, finally crossing her arms after a few moments.

"Husband died a few years ago, and everything would've been fine until I slipped in the kitchen and hit my head on the counter. I got lucky it didn't do anything worse than land me here, you know, like kill me. Although, to be honest, after being here...who knows, the alternative might be preferable."

Boris laughed, rubbing his nose, "Yeah, I know what you mean, but it's not all bad. I mean, you've got good stuff about this place too, like, well, I mean...and this is just for starters, just sorta lowballing here but, I'm here, so that's pretty cool. That's what I've been told anyway."

"Yeah, I guess that sort of makes it worth it," Leanne said sarcastically, "You want to hear a funny story? My daughter comes to visit every now and then, I cannot stand her boyfriend and unfortunately he comes along with her, and she asks me how I'm doing here. I always lie, and tell her I'm having a great time and am very happy here, because it's easier to let her be happy not having to deal with me than it is telling her how unhappy I really am. My child deserves their own life without having me burden them, though, if life were fair, they wouldn't consider us 'burdens' to begin with."

"Very, sadly true," Boris said, as they stopped so she could pick a nice, pink flower from the garden and sniff it, smiling.

Boris liked her, she was very down to earth and very pretty, and they seemed to have the same sense of humor. After she finished looking at the flowers, they went and sat on a bench, watching a family visiting their grandpa at a picnic table a bit away from them. Leanne handed Boris the flower and he sniffed it too.

"Sometimes I just think that, you know, this is how everyones lives end. You get old, your kids leave and you wind up alone in a nursing facility," Leanne said as she took her hat off, letting the wind waft through her hair, "But then I remember that not everyone does end up like this. Some people our age...they get to go home. They get to stay with the people who care about them. You would think I would prefer this, look at it as a new outlook on life, a new, final adventure before the end, but...I'd rather be with my family."

Boris looked down at his feet and sighed, his mind flashing back to the dream he'd had the other night. The car accident. Her. He gulped and started to pick at his fingernails.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "At least you do get to meet some interesting people here. I really like Nurse Whittle, she's very kind and smart. She's a good nurse. And I got to meet you, so that's pretty good."

"Hmmm, it is nice I suppose," Leanne said, putting her hat back on and staring vacantly at the family having lunch at the picnic table, sighing, "Besides, I could've ended up at a worse hospice."

"That's the spirit!" Boris said, making her chuckle.

"At least here," she said, "I can get up and walk around. I'm in the 3rd building, across the grounds," she said, "Amazed I could even make it all the way over here, with my leg and everything."

"Yeah, it's...uh," Boris started, then stopped, having deja vu, "What?"

She grinned, and lifted up the hem of her dress, revealing her right leg was fake. She knocked on it, making it emit a hollow sound.

"It had to be amputated. Not that interesting of a story, really. But, makes me seem pretty cool to the kids, so it has its pluses," she said, laughing about it. Boris couldn't tell, but this sounded...familiar. Like they'd already talked about this, but he didn't want to ask, in case it appeared like he rudely wasn't listening, so he just stayed silent. Leanne continued laughing, adding, "You want to hear a funny story? My daughter comes to visit every now and then, I cannot stand her boyfriend and unfortunately he comes along with her, and she asks me how I'm doing here. I always lie, and tell her I'm having a great time and am very happy here, because it's easier to let her be happy not having to deal with me than it is telling her how unhappy I really am. My child deserves their own life without having me burden them, though, if life were fair, they wouldn't consider us 'burdens' to begin with."

Boris stared at her as she looked off into the distance, still smiling. That's when it dawned on him. She didn't know she was repeating these things. She'd completely forgotten they'd even had these conversations scant minutes ago.

"...yeah," Boris said, shifting on the bench uncomfortably, putting his hands on his knees, "Yeah that...that's a funny story."

"So how'd it happen?" Carol asked, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose while Boris shrugged.

"Close as I heard, he just died in his sleep," Boris said, "If only we should all be so lucky."

"That's so boring," Carol said, "Did you ever expect yourself to die in a place like this? Surrounded by fake plants and wicker furniture?"

"I never expected myself to die, so, no," Boris replied.

As Boris popped some gum in his mouth and started chewing, Larry came up to his side, one hand on his hip, the other gripping the top of his cane, as he lifted it up and shook it at the people emptying some things from Mr. Hendersons room.

"What's going on?" Larry asked.

"Harry Henderson died last night," Boris said.

"How?" Larry asked.

"Just died in his sleep, peacefully," Boris said.

"He was always so boring, he couldn't even die excitingly," Carol said, making Boris smirk.

Just then Boris heard a loud thunk, and he turned to see Nurse Whittle pulling a stretcher in through the front doors. Boris turned and headed to help her, best he could, with bringing it down the hall. As he grabbed hold of the other side and started to wheel it with her, Whittle shook her head, her little blonde braids looking like puppy tails.

"I hate days like this," she said, "These are what I was afraid of when I first started in this business. I hate death, it just...it's so sad, I never wanna be around any dead people."

"You should've picked a different field then," Boris said, making her chuckle as he tossed another piece of gum in his mouth, "Lots of people are going to die here, all around you, and eventually even ones you'll be close to."

"Don't talk about that," Whittle said, looking up at him, and Boris felt like he'd gone too far, "Just help me get this over there so they can get him out of here."

Boris nodded and continued to help her push the stretcher over to Hendersons door. After they stopped it, Whittle turned and went back to the front desk, leaving Boris with his friends. Carol sighed as Larry headed back to the main entertainment room with everyone else. Boris and Carol turned and looked in through Hendersons door to see his body still in his bed, covered by a sheet. They entered the room, Caroline looking at his things on the dresser (pictures, etc) while Boris sat on the side of the bed by Hendersons side.

"God, look at this," Carol said, "He had like 4 grandkids. God, I remember when my grandmother died, I was so upset. My grandfather had died before I was born, so I never got to meet him obviously, but this is going to devastate these kids. It's going to change them forever."

"Your entire life is boiled down to this...a whole lifetime of experiences, dwindled to a small room you don't even like or want to be in, surrounded by only the essentials now, waiting for people who may never even come visit you," Boris said.

"Hey, you're not going anywhere anytime soon so don't worry. Besides, you didn't even like Henderson all that much," Carol said, standing next to Boris, rubbing his back. Boris wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked up at her, smirking a little as she sighed, "Alright, come on, up on your feet. We're going to get some breakfast."

                                                                                              ***

"I think my least favorite part of it all is that we have to deal with the fact that we have to get to know someone else when someone dies," Larry said, "That's so annoying. My memory is shit, okay? I'm not remembering anyone new, sorry. I already work hard to remember my own name, let alone anyone new."

Boris was sitting at the lunch table with everyone else, stirring his coffee with his spoon while Larry and Carol ate lunch. Just then, a short haired brunette stopped by the table. It was Polly Tweed from the third floor, with her pad in her hand.

"Alright, so, who bet on Harry?" she asked, tapping the pad with her pen as Larry opened his wallet and handed her some money.

"This death pool is going to wipe me out," Larry said under his breath.

"You guys don't think it's a little bit sick?" Boris asked sternly, "Betting on when your friends are going to die, hoping they die before you do?"

"First off, they're not our friends," Carol said, "Secondly, I like money more than I do living, so I'm not doing this in the hopes that I'll outlive someone as much as I'm doing it for the hope that I'll make money from outliving someone."

"I...I guess I can't argue with that," Boris said, sipping his coffee.

"Any takers for this months pool?" Polly asked.

"Who is it?" Boris asked.

"Torn Peters, up on the second floor," Polly said, "He's got a bad cough right now, and he's about 87. It's pretty much a win for anyone, so I'm likely to be paying out to everyone this month."

"I'll take that action," Carol said, handing Polly a twenty dollar bill, "Got nothing else to spend this money on."

Boris got up and headed out of the lunchroom, while the others watched. As he got outside, he began pacing, digging frantically in his coat pockets for something when he heard someone clear their throat. Boris turned quickly, surprised, to see Whittle sitting on some steps, smoking a cigarette.

"What's up?" she asked, "Did you lose something?"

"Ironically, I was looking for my nicotine gum," Boris said, finally pulling the package out of his pocket and taking a piece before sitting down beside her, neither one saying a word. They watched The Stitches working on a group quilt in the courtyard, a gentle cool spring breeze wafting by, blowing through their hair.

"Do you still have grandparents?" Boris asked, and Whittle smiled, turning her cigarette around in her fingers, watching it twirl.

"Yeah, I still have a grandpa who's around," she said, "He's not the one I liked as much, he's my dads dad, but...it's nice, having some family like that still be around. Grandparents dying are the first real hit kids take in the world of mortality. I mean, even losing a pet doesn't register the same I think, because you know, while it's not the same as the first pet you can replace a pet. You can't replace a grandparent."

"You talk to him a lot?" Boris asked.

"Nah, not really. On his birthday, or on my birthday when he calls me."

"Does he live in one of these places?" Boris asked, and she shook her head.

"Um, no, he's actually kind of wealthy, so he lives in his place still, has people living with him, helping him," she said, "But, ya know, it's good because he doesn't have to rely on his family and stuff."

"Shouldn't you want to rely on your family? Aren't they supposed to be there for you? Isn't that the whole concept of 'family'?" Boris asked, chewing rapidly while Whittle exhaled smoke into the air and waved it away with her hand, shrugging.

"I don't know," she said, "I guess he just doesn't want to feel like a burden."

"You're a kid, everyone loves you. Everyone wants to help you, give you a head start, you're an advertising dream. Then you get older, and less people want to be with you, think you should be okay on your own, even advertisers don't think you're as worth selling too after a certain age. We tell kids growing up that they shouldn't have to be alone, then they hit a certain age and we tell them 'Welp, you're on your own now, good luck!'; what an unhealthy mixed message. Then, you reach my age, and this family you grew up knowing is dead, you're all that's left, and your own kids, if you're lucky enough to even have any, want to live their own lives so they stick you in one of these places and wait for you to die so they can argue over what you left them, because that's all you end up being in the end...a goddamned slot payout."

Another few moments passed by, and Boris sighed, scratching his head.

"So, can I have Hendersons room?" he asked.

"You literally just made an argument against-"

"I know what I did, I'm a hypocrite. Can I have his room or not?" Boris asked, "It's closer to everything, it's right by the front room and everything, and I..."

"...what?" Whittle asked, exhaling smoke, pushing some hair from her eyes.

"I don't like being at the end of the hall," Boris said, sounding dejected, "I want to be closer to you. You're always at the front desk, I want to be closer to you."

Their eyes locked for a moment, and after a second, Whittle giggled and nodded, taking another long drag.

"I'll see what I can do, Boris," she said, "You want a hit?"

"...yeah, fuck it," Boris said, spitting his gum out and taking her cigarette.

                                                                                              ***

"I hate you!" she screamed at Boris in the car, "You always do this!"

"Someone has to," Boris said, feeling her kick the back of his chair, "You signed up for this, you can't just not stick to your obligations, okay? If she won't take you, then it's up to me and-"

"I didn't wanna do this! She made me sign up for it!" she yelled, "You guys never listen to what I actually want to do, you just pick things for me!"

"Stop yelling, I can hear you perfectly fine, okay?!"

"I hate you!"

"Fine, that's fine, ya know why? 'Cause I hate me too, so there!" Boris shouted back, and that's when he hit the other car, and woke up, still in bed, same as every time he had this dream. Boris sat up, grabbed his water glass from the side table by the bed and after a few seconds, put it back down, opened the tables drawer and instead pulled out a small bottle of scotch, uncorking it and taking a few sips. Boris got up, walked to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror, and for a split second he swore he was still as young as he was in the dream, but then his eyes adjusted and he saw he was still the same, old, bitter man he'd always been. He walked himself back to his bed and laid back down, thinking back on the dream.

He still hated himself, all these years later