He laid in the hospice bed reading The Brothers Karamazov. An IV ran into his arm. A slight high from morphine. Curtains open. A dove flew by.

You’re reading Dostoyevsky, I said. 

Yes. I’ve always gotten to page 456, then put it down and never finished. We laughed. Always curious how it ends.

Well.

Don’t tell me.

OK. I said. Why have you never finished?

I don’t know. He said, licking on Italian ice. I like the Russians. I’ve read other works of Dostoyevsky, but I just couldn’t finish this one. Strange, isn’t it.

Yes. Never read him in college? I asked. He shook his head and pushed the button for more pain relief.

Read Chekhov. Tolstoy. Then I read the Irish….the Americans.

I see. Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Not in the same league. We laughed. He closed his eyes. The dove sat on the window sill. He rested the book on his chest.

Alright. Tell me how it ends.

I shook my head and held his hand. Nope, I said. Don’t want to ruin it for you.