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Among the eucalyptus trees.

She wears a faded cotton sweatshirt the color of green apples, a green and pink tie-died t-shirt, and a green drawstring skirt. Around her neck is a string of beads sprinkled with tiny spiraled sea shells, each shell threaded carefully so that their spirals turn on exactly the same axis—little planets aligned in their orbit, circling her throat. Against the white walls and the clicking and churning machinery of the ICU, she is like some fairy goddess. She should be carrying a wand, draping garlands of flowers across the monitors and I.V. poles. Instead she is wringing her hands at his bedside, stricken. ‘‘I thought this was just going to be another bump in the road,’’ she says, every muscle in her face trembling with the effort of what she is enduring. ‘‘I didn’t think it was going to turn into this, I really didn’t.’’ Her hair is the pale blonde of someone who has spent many hours in the sun. I can see her basking on a back porch, enjoying long, fading summer evenings, holding his hand in hers, as she does now. The skin on the backs of his hands used to match hers in its deep bronze. Today his hands are a sickly yellow, cracked and bleeding at the knuckles, bruises marking every touch. He is 60 years old. After waiting nine years for a combined kidney-liver transplant—in the meantime battling the toxins released by his failing organs—he has finally come to the hospital with an infection from which he will not recover. He knows this, now; they both do. He opens his eyes intermittently at the sound of her voice. He even makes occasional remarks, his voice weak but always clear—as though he is saving his energy in order to be sure that his few words may be understood. ‘‘We just celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary,’’ she tells us. Her voice tinkles in a surprising English accent; I would have guessed she’d grown up in Grass Valley or Sebastopol, but no: suburban London. Somehow she made it over to California at a young age, where she found him. ‘‘He used to be up for anything,’’ she says. ‘‘Any night of the week, if something was happening, he wanted to go, he wanted to be a part of it. I feel so lucky to have had someone like that to share my life with, someone with so much energy.’’ She leans over him and smiles longingly, brushing the hair across his forehead with her fingertips. Royal blue earrings dangle beside her jaw. Her lips form silent words intended only for him. She turns suddenly, looking up at us. ‘‘And when you do turn off the medications,’’ she asks, ‘‘Then.how long?’’ The doctors match her gaze. They allow just a moment to pass, a silent acknowledgement of the weight of her question. ‘‘We don’t know,’’ they answer. ‘‘Every person is different.’’ She turns back to him, nodding slowly. ‘‘But we do know,’’ the fellow bravely continues, ‘‘based on how he did on his trials off the pressor medicines a few days ago, that we shouldn’t expect to have very much time. That’s why we asked about other people he might want to see, or other things that might be important to him, and to you. Before he dies.’’