From the title story of Chris Adrian’s short story collection, A Better Angel, in the New Yorker.
I always hated hospice and hospice people, nurses with smart heels and smother pillows, and the women in charge of the palliative-care programs, who seemed universally to be dark-eyed and dark-haired and very tall. They dressed like nineteenth-century Jesuits and cherished their crushes on death. But Janie brought me liquid morphine and Ativan—and either of those would be enough to make me forgive anybody a mere crime of being.
