Christopher M. Smith

The first thing I remember is the sound of oxygen at night.

It was my second week as a hospice nurse. I had just pulled up to a modest home on a cul-de-sac, the kind of place where wind chimes echo off empty sidewalks. Inside, a man in his seventies was dying of end-stage pulmonary fibrosis. He was surrounded by family, but it was that soft hiss—steady and rhythmic, like an artificial tide—that centered the room.

His breathing was labored, yet peaceful. His wife sat beside him, holding one hand.