Two sides of the king-size bed are mountains high above a valley in the middle where he falls every night. He lies there in darkness, moving side to side, trying to climb to either peak but is unsuccessful. Sheets and blankets wadded up at his feet, kicking them off of his warm body at three every morning with moonlight light shining in his window. A train passes through town.

Again, he struggles to reach the top. Sheets are soaked and stained with yellow makings on a dingy white. The old man is gasping for air. The train whistle blows a final time. Dreams have turned to nightmares.

He pushes with his arms and legs on the sides of the bed, hoping he can get out of it soon. He finally gives up hope, pisses a stream down the middle, and cries out to Jesus.

Every night, it’s the same. A wrapper of Saltine crackers on his nightstand along with two towels. First, he reaches for the towels and begins wiping himself and soaking up the urine. He reaches over the mountain top and grabs a cracker. He eats it hungrily, wishing there were sardines to go with it.

Sunlight now shines. A nurse tells him it’s time for his medicine. She pulls on his arms till he lies erect. The meds are forced down his throat. She leaves him there in the valley.

You wet the bed again, she says. I’ll get an aide to clean you up. Change the sheets, and you’ll feel like a new man. She smiles as he lies in the stream.