Pictures of windmills. An old well pump. Photos of parents and grandparents.  A red barn in a wooden frame.

Candles burn, giving off an autumn scent of pumpkins and pine cones. He swirls red wine in a plastic cup. Lights a cigarette. Looks out the window. A giant blow-up turkey in a front yard. The sun sets. Light turns black. There is nothing more to see.

The fireplace does not work. Nothing in this house does. Electric and gas have been shut off. A blanket with flowers on it covers the old man. He can see his breath. The wine burns as it goes down his throat. Cigarette butts on a wooden floor.

She comes in and sits on the couch. Too dark to knit. His wife wears a coat. When does the social security check come? She asks.

The first. He tells her.

What day is it?

Not sure. They just kind of run together. He takes a last drag and crushes the cancer stick. Places his hands in his pants. I remember when you kept me warm. He tells her.

Yeah. I remember, too. We’re getting old. Too old to fool around, she says. Too old to not have heat or light. She lies down. That wine is going to kill us.

Hopefully.

Pour me a cup.

A cup of death, he laughs.

Just what the doctor ordered.