Images , like photographs , came to her then : a kitchen , painted bright yellow . A chrome table . A curtain wriggled in the breeze that came in through an open window . A plate of bacon and eggs . A woman in a dress and apron . And then the images were gone , flown away like so many of her memories . The loud crack of nearby lightning made her jump , her hair standing up with the electricity of it . She covered her head and screamed , though the sound was swallowed up in rolling thunder , tossed about like clothes in a dryer . Another image : standing in front of a bank of dryers . Where ? Oh , of course , a laundromat . Where she would wash the baby 's diapers and clothes . Baby ? Did she have a baby then ? She wasn 't sure where the rain stopped and her tears began , but she became aware that she was crying . She just didn 't quite know why . Where was everyone ? Where was she ? What was she doing here ? She closed her eyes and just listened to the rain as it pelted the ground beside her , felt the drops hit her face , became aware of the decreasing intensity of the storm . And just like that , it was over . The sky attempted to clear , scrubbed clean by the tempest . A patch of blue played hide - and - seek with the clouds . A snippet of rainbow appeared for a brief while , then receded . She got up and shook herself . Her clothes were wet and clung to her body , showing off curves that might have been voluptuous once . Now her breasts hung to just above her navel , and her thighs rubbed against each other when she walked . Her hair , once a subdued auburn was now a yellowish gray . Another image flashed into her mind : A man this time . Handsome . Wearing a uniform . Military maybe . Or maybe not . It was hard to tell . There was something in his face that made her put her hand to throat and catch her breath . And then he was gone , the image fading along with the others . Where was she ? She stood uncertainly , wondering where to go . For she knew she couldn 't stay where she was . Besides , she was hungry . How long had it been since she had eaten ? She couldn 't remember . An hour , a day ? Longer ? Her stomach growled loudly , and she smiled a bit . A woman 's voice . " Your stomach must think your throat 's been cut , " the voice said . " Here , have an apple to tide you over ' til dinner . " The voice faded , along with the context . Peering through the trees , she saw something . A house ? A cave ? She started towards it , whatever it was , hoping to reach it before the rain began again . For the sky was once again darkening , and low rumbles could be heard in the distance , headed in her direction like horses gone wild . She tripped over roots and downed branches . She brushed her thinning hair back away from her face , blinked the wetness from her eyes . She became disoriented and searched frantically for whatever it was she had seen before , but there was nothing . Lightning struck again , and again , and again . She curled herself into a ball , put her hands over her head , and scrunched her eyes closed until all she could see was the pattern the lightning made on her eyelids . " God ! " she cried . " God , make it stop ! Please make it stop ! " She made herself go away . When she was young , she could make herself disappear when Uncle Charlie came to visit . It was an old escape mechanism . One she didn 't know she still possessed . She withdrew into her imaginary refuge : a room . Floor to ceiling book - shelves . Mahogany paneling . A warm carpet on the floor . Oil paintings on the walls . A large round table in the middle of the room , with yellow roses in a vase . On the far wall a picture window , framing the sea . A wing back chair . A footstool . A blazing fire in the fireplace . A cup of tea . She saw herself in the room , sitting in the chair , her feet on the footstool . She was warm and dry . She was reading Anne of Green Gables . A cat … no , a dog lay beside the chair , snoring softly . She nibbled some cookies she found on the side table . Drank some tea . Looked out the picture window at whales and dolphins playing in the ocean . When she awoke , the storm was over . The sky was completely clear , though beginning to darken into dusk . With dusk came more cold . Bitter , bitter cold . She wrapped her arms around herself , though it did little good . She shivered and her stomach growled . But she felt better , as though the storm had washed away some of her own mental cobwebs . She still didn 't know where she was , but she remembered her name : Martha . Martha Collins . The voice again . " Very good Martha . Now what is your address ? You must know your address in case you ever get lost . " Another image . A house , set back a little ways from the street . A white house with green shutters . A white picket fence , with an open gate . Yellow roses around the base of the porch . A child playing in the rain in the front yard . The image faded again , to be replaced by another . A building , but not a home . Like a hospital , but not a hospital . Gates . Someone had left a gate open . She remembered walking out of the gate , onto the street . She followed the sidewalk . " Don 't step on a crack ; you 'll break your mother 's back ! " She started to walk up to the roses to smell them , when someone yelled at her . " Get out of my yard , you old biddy ! Get out ! " And she had run . Well , maybe not run exactly , but she moved as fast as she was able . But she got turned around and couldn 't find her way back . And then she forgot where back was , or why she wanted to go there . She came to a clearing . She stopped and listened . She was surrounded by stones , flat ones , and upright ones . Stones with writing on them . The rain had made the stones shiny . In the distance was a sound that might have been traffic , but she wasn 't sure . In any case , that sound was all around , so she didn 't know in which direction to go . She started to walk , because she couldn 't think of anything else to do . At least it wasn 't raining any more . But now , it was starting to get dark , and she was still cold , and wet , and hungry . She wandered around the place with the stones , feeling as though she had been here before . She just couldn 't remember when , or why . But the place had a familiar feel to it , a feeling both comforting and sad at the same time . She saw a bench and sat on it . Her feet hurt , so she took off her shoes . She smoothed her hair with her cold , cold hands . She was so tired . So very , very tired . She dreamed of the white house with the green shutters and yellow roses . The gate was closed that led into the yard . On the porch was the handsome young man , shining bright in his uniform . He held his arms out to her and in an instant she knew exactly who she was , and who he was . She knew exactly where she was going , and where she wanted to be . " Not a good experience this time around , " she answered , reaching up to rub the red paddle marks on either side of her head . " I was cold and wet and hungry . " She took a bite of mashed potato . " Pretty uncomfortable , really . " " Oh yes , Thomas is always there every time I die . " Martha put down her fork , a wistful look coming into her eyes . " Maybe one day , " she said , " I 'll get to stay dead . " Let me explain . My name is Walter Stone . I am eighty - five years old . I 've been eighty - five years old for fifty years . I live in a time when medical advancements are coming at so fast a pace , no one can keep up . There are cures for almost everything now . Almost . I was actually kind of looking forward to dying . I wanted to see my beloved wife again , who had passed away when we were both in our seventies . I wanted to know what was on the " other side " of this earthly life . I wanted to be free of the aches and pains of old age . When my memory started to go , I got scared . Alzheimer 's disease is a horrible thing . It robs you of your memory , of your children and grandchildren , of any joy in life , until you are nothing but a shell of your former self , sitting in some nursing home in a wheelchair because you 've forgotten how to walk . The very thought filled me with dread . So when a clinical study began , asking for volunteers to test a new medication that was supposed to cure Alzheimer 's , I took the plunge . And it worked ! Lord in Heaven ! It actually worked ! After only three injections , my mind was as sharp and my memory as clear as when I was in my twenties or thirties . Better maybe . No , better , definitely . It was such a miracle that there was a rush to put this drug on the market . Such a rush , that long - term studies were deemed useless . It worked , so why withhold it to those who so desperately needed it ? For example , it did nothing for other conditions a person might have . Diabetes , COPD , arthritis , macular degeneration , muscular sclerosis , post - polio syndrome - well , you get the picture . A person still had all the aches , pains , and conditions that he or she had before taking the drug . But , by golly , our memories were sharp ! It was only about five years into the study that researchers discovered yet another side effect to this wonder drug . The participants in the study didn 't seem to get any older . If your body was eighty - five , it stayed eighty - five . If your body was ninety , or a full hundred , your body simply stayed there . Forever . Or so it seems . It 's been fifty years since my eighty - fifth birthday , and I 'm still eighty - five . I still have crippling rheumatoid arthritis . I 'm still diabetic . I 'm still in pain every day of my life . My bones ache when it rains , and my bum knee still gives out when I climb the stairs . My macular degeneration is such that I can 't read any better now than I could when the study began . Even now that most conditions have largely been wiped out among the general population , they 're still alive and well among those of us who took the Alzheimer 's drug . I don 't live at home any more . When the side effect of living came to the attention of the researchers , they rounded us up and put us in various nursing homes across the country . I 'm not sure how many of us there are , but quite a few . I live in Shady Acres , just outside of Chicago . It 's a nice enough facility I suppose . My son and daughter used to come and visit , but they 've both passed away now . It creeps out the grandkids to come see me , so they don 't bother to visit . It gets lonely talking to the same old people every day , especially after fifty years and we 've all heard everybody 's stories a million times . Rumors swirl around like we were in high school though . One rumor is that some people in their thirties and forties have taken the drug , trying to stay young forever . Hmmmpf . What foolishness that is ! Trust me , living forever ain 't what it 's cracked up to be . Another rumor is that they 're trying to find a way to kill us without harming us . I mean , nothing violent , for that would be cruel . I 've heard they managed to kill one old gentleman in San Francisco , but he only stayed dead for fifteen minutes . When he came back to life , he was the same age as when he had died , and still had all his attendant miseries . Only now , he was blind too . There is talk that using the guillotine and immediate cremation might work , but so far they haven 't got a volunteer to try that . After all , what if your ashes came back together and you became alive again in your grave ? I shudder to even contemplate that . Luckily , they can 't force us . There are laws about things like that . Of course , the use of the drug has been suspended indefinitely . I 've heard the scientists are still working on a cure for Alzheimer 's that doesn 't have all the side effects , but so far , no luck . Maybe that 's for the best , in the long run . At least at some point a person with Alzheimer 's will pass away and their misery will be over . For those of us who took the wonder drug , our misery lasts forever . In Norse mythology there is a tale about a bird in the land of Odin . In Odin there is a mountain , one thousand miles square . Every million years this bird comes along and sharpens its beak on the mountain . When the mountain is finally worn away , that , to eternity , is only one single day . From the looks of it , I may still be around when that happens . " Oh , aye , she were a drinker , that one . " The old man leaned back in his chair with a chuckle . He placed his hands on his corpulent belly and drummed a little tattoo , his eyes crinkling up a little in remembrance . He was in his early seventies , short and round . His hair , what there was left of it , was a mix of blond and gray . His eyes were red - rimmed with crying , and puffy with too little sleep . His nose bore the evidence of a lifetime of drinking alcohol , with spider veins that created a pattern that looked rather like the state of Texas , if you squinted your eyes . The interview room was small and cold . Detective Samuel " Shady " Parker sat in a chair across from Charlie Fields , the accused . Shady was comfortable in his suit jacket and tie , though Mr . Fields seemed a little chilly , even though he was wearing a flannel shirt beneath his denim overalls . The room was painted Dusky Gray , a fact Parker knew because his wife , Lottie , had helped pick out the color . It was a neutral shade , impersonal and unadorned , the walls broken only by one door , and the large two - way window . Parker knew his trainee , Jimmy , was on the other side of the two - way , watching , learning , taking notes . He was a nice lad , Jimmy was . Maybe a little too nice for this line of work , Shady thought . He returned his attention to Mr . Fields , who had fallen silent . " And had she been drinking last night , Mr . Fields ? " Shady Parker asked . Charlie 's eyes lit up and mellowed . " Oh , me and Beulah knowed each other since grade school , " he answered . " She weren 't never perty , but then , neither was I . Mebee that 's what drew us to each other . We was both homely as a mud fence , and knowed it . Still , I usta tell her she was perty , even though we both knowed it was a lie . But she liked to hear it , so I liked to say it . " " Well , me and Beulah got married when she were but thirteen . That 's the way things were did back then . I were sixteen meself . I 'm seventy - two now , so … " he stopped to count on his fingers . " Let me see , twenty - six , thirty - six , forty - six , fifty - six , sixty - six , that 's fifty years and add … " he counted again , “… so we was married fifty - six years . Ain 't that right ? I ain 't never been too good at numbers . " " Well , back then , when we said Until death do us part , we meant it . Not like the younguns today , who may say it , but they don 't mean it . As soon as some little bump in the road comes along , they git divorced . Me and Beulah , we dint believe in divorce , even when times were hard . " The old man didn 't answer for a minute , then said , " I ' member the first time I saw her . She were sittin ' by herself in the corner of the classroom during recess . She din 't like to go out durin ' recess ' cause the other girls usta make fun of her . Her one leg was a little shorter than the other , so she warn 't no good at runnin ' . And she were poor . Even more poorer than me , and that 's sayin ' somethin ' . " A large tear escaped from Charlie 's eye . It ran down his cheek and Shady watched in fascination as it reached the edge of Charlie 's face and dropped off onto his flannel shirt . Charlie reached into his pocket and drew out a red handkerchief . He blew his nose into it , then wiped his eyes with the edge . " She had the bluest eyes , " Charlie said . " They was her best feature . Her eyes were like the blue you see in the sky , right after it rains . She loved the sky , loved watchin ' the clouds , and seein ' perty pitchers there , and seein ' the birds fly across it , all free . She did love the sky . " " It sounds like you loved her very much , " the detective said softly . Mr . Fields leaned forward , as if being closer to the detective would make his words more truthful . " ' cause she was sufferin ! Ever day , she suffered . Ever day . Ever day . " More tears gathered in the old man 's eyes and fell , unchecked , some splashing onto the table . " I don 't know zactly . Somethin ' to do with her liver . At first she just lost weight and she were tired all the time . Her skin turned yellow and then her belly just swole up . And she hurt . She hurt ever minute of ever day . She got all confused , and sometimes she dint even seem to know who I was . " " That must have been hard , " Shady said . " You ever love anybody ? " Charlie asked . " Somebody you 'd give up yer life fer ? Somebody you 'd rather take their pain than let them suffer through it ? " Charlie leaned back in his chair . " Then you 'll understand why I had to do it . She were sufferin ' and I couldn 't let her suffer no more . " " Well , the doctors couldn 't do nuthin ' fer her . They give her drugs that jest made her tired and loopy all the time , but she were still hurtin ' . And finally , I couldn 't stand to see her like that no more . " Charlie 's eyes were full of misery as he looked full into Shady 's face . " She dint want to live no more . She told me so . She 'd cry and hang on to me and beg me to make it stop . " He covered his eyes with his work - callused hands . " So I did . " " All of ' em ! " Charlie said in a rush , eager now to get this over with . " Her pain pills and her heart pills and ever other pill the doctor gave her . I jest kept some by until I thought mebee I had enough . " " Then last night , I went in and she were crying somethin ' awful . Clutching at her stomach , her face all scrunched up in pain . She begged me to make it stop , so brought out all the pills I 'd saved and give ' em to her . " " No . I 'd give her a few with the beer , and she 'd take as many as she could , then fall asleep for a while . When she woke up , I 'd give her more , with more beer . I don 't ' member how many times . But after a while , she dint wake up no more . " The interview room was quiet . Shady wrote something in his notepad . " Thank you , Charlie , " he said . " The officer will take you to your cell now . " Charlie smiled a little . " She looked right peaceful . Afterwards , you know ? Right peaceful . I 'll be glad when I can go be with her . " Jimmy looked shaken . " That was so sad , " he said . " Yeah , I suppose it was , " Shady said . " It 's still murder . " Parker picked up the phone and arranged for a suicide watch to be put on Charlie Fields . " I guess so , " Jimmy answered . " But maybe it was mercy too , you think ? " Shady shrugged . " Maybe . That 's not up to me . Or to you , " he said pointedly . " That 's up to the courts . " " Hard to say . He 's old , and not in very good health himself . If he does go to jail , he probably won 't last long . " Later that evening , Shady was home with his wife , Lottie , and his step - daughter , Keno . It was an ordinary night . Dinner , dishes , a little television . Keno put a card table up in the den . Shady hung up the phone . When he turned around , Keno was standing in front of the puzzle closet . " What kind of puzzle do you want , Dad ? " she asked . It is Christmas in Camden , Maine . Well , almost . Christmas is still a few days away , so the streets will be heavy with locals doing holiday shopping , and tourists come for the skiing . The roads will have been salted , so they 'll be clear . The snow hasn 't been bad yet this year , Mom says . " Just enough to look like a postcard , " says Dad . I can picture it in my mind . Snow just deep enough to be pretty , but not yet treacherous . The hills will be white , and the ocean a deep , rich blue . The boats will have long since been in drydock , but the harbor will still be beautiful . The statue of Edna St . Vincent Millay will look slightly forlorn , standing all alone in the park . Whitehall Inn will be decorated to the nines , as usual . Festive wreaths will adorn each door , and the parlor will have a gigantic Christmas tree . The puzzle table will still draw visitors , and many a happy hour will be spent near the fire , chatting with new friends , and drinking a cup of tea . The Owl and Turtle Bookstore will be doing a brisk business . Some shoppers will come in to browse and buy and leave . Others will come and stay for a cup of hot chocolate and settle in to read by the fire . Neighbors will pop in to say hello , then dash out again , intent on finding the perfect gift for whatever family member has shown up at the last minute . The grandkids will hover around the kitchen , begging for a taste . " Get away with ya ! " Mom will say , but she 'll be smiling when she says it . And if a small hand reaches up to snatch a cookie , she 'll pretend not to see . " Can we go outside ? Can we go sledding ? Can we ? Can we ? " The grandkids will pipe up . The hill outside the house is perfect for sledding , and the day is long with waiting . " Okay , " Mom will say , " but bundle up warm , you hear ? Bundle up warm . I don 't need you getting sick over the holiday . " And the kids will scurry off to bundle into sweatshirts and jackets , warm socks and boots and mittens . " Go to the bathroom before you put all that stuff on , " Dad will admonish from his throne in the living room . He 'll be in the recliner , of course , his stockinged feet close to the fire , watching It 's A Wonderful Life on television . Or maybe not . He might be reading . He 's a big reader , my dad is . Every year at Hallowe ' en he reads The War of the Worlds to us aloud , and we shiver and shriek every time . On Thanksgiving he 'll read the praise selections from the Psalms . On Christmas , he 'll read the nativity story from the Bible . Somehow , even after all these years , the story never gets old . He 'll have us close our eyes and imagine the young couple , Mary and Joseph , travel weary , just looking for a place to rest . He 'll describe the clear night sky , pinpointed with a million stars , and we 'll swear we can hear the angels singing . He 'll bring the Wise Men that we 've placed in different parts of the house just a little bit closer to the manger in the nativity set Mom has placed under the tree . The manger will be empty , waiting until Christmas Day to receive the Christ child . Oh , and presents ! With all the grandchildren , the tree will just about be hidden with all the presents ! Brightly wrapped toys and games , socks and pajamas . Dad will get new slippers , a new wallet , and a new bathrobe . Mom will get perfume , and something that she unwraps , blushes , and quickly puts away . After all these years , Mom never does say what that present is . So , it is Christmas in Camden , Maine . And this year , I 'll not be home . Moved away , didn 't I ? Moved away to be out on my own , to make my way in the world , to be independent . It didn 't quite work out how I planned it . I was on my way to California , where it doesn 't snow , and I wouldn 't have to scrape the ice off my windshield every morning . Golden California , where jobs are hanging off the trees , ripe for the plucking . Movie stars hang out at ritzy places , and I dreamed that maybe I 'd get discovered like Lana Turner did , at the soda fountain at Schwab 's drugstore . I thought I 'd make a mark on the world , do something grand , be somebody important maybe . But that 's not what happened . My car broke down in New Mexico , and somehow I just stayed . I met a guy . Ron is a nice man , a sweet guy . We 're getting married in the Spring , before the baby comes . I hope my family can be here . But it 's a long way from Camden , Maine . A long way . And the only thing my parents are rich in is love . Still , I know they 'll be thinking of me . A customer holds out his cup , and I turn around to get the coffee pot . " Sorry , " I say , pouring . " I was a million miles away . " I go through the kitchen and out the back door . It 's times like this when I almost wished I smoked , but since I don 't I just wrap my sweater around me and look out onto the Sandia Mountains , its snowy nose kissing the sky . It 's a beautiful place , here . But I 'm not sure it will ever feel like home . The boss sticks his nose out the door . " Caroline , we 're getting busy . Can you come back in ? " " What the heck ? " It only takes me a minute to cross the room and become enfolded in the arms of my family . Mom and Dad , my sisters , my brother , nieces and nephews . They 're all there . My family . All of them ! Dad tilts his head toward my husband - to - be , who is standing there grinning , eyes shining . " Merry Christmas , honey , " he says . I look towards the door and see Charlie leaning against the opening , wiping his eyes with his apron . " Merry Christmas , Caroline , " he says huskily , then turns aside as the rest of the crew begin bringing in a Christmas feast . Christmas in Camden , Maine has become Christmas in New Mexico . And I am reminded once more that Christmas is not about a place , or presents , or about memories of Christmases past , but about family , and about love . This Christmas , I am home . I have a spider that lives in my bathroom . He 's not very big ; I mean , he 's not a tarantula or a black widow or anything like that . He 's just a normal - looking spider . He 's quite an industrious fellow and has provided me with much entertainment watching him weave his webs while I am … ahem … otherwise engaged . I just moved into this apartment a few months ago , after Charlie died . I can sometimes go for days without speaking to another living soul , so I 've kind of gotten used to talking to Harold , that 's the spider . He was here when I got here , hidden away in the corner near the bathtub . Anyway , one day I was sitting on the porcelain throne , doing my business while Harold was doing his . ( Oh dear , I 've never thought about just where Harold does his " business . " Maybe I don 't want to know . ) My Bridge club 's annual Baking Contest was coming up , and I was talking to Harold about it . " Of course I did , " the voice said . The voice was high and squeaky , and kind of rusty sounding , as if it hadn 't been used in a while . I leaned against the back of the toilet . The lid scraped against the tank , so I straightened up right away . " Well , " I said to myself . " I 've finally gone ' round the bend . No hope for me now . Call the little men in the white coats . " I sighed . If this was some sort of hallucination , I guess I could think of others that could be worse . " Okay , " I said . " I 'll bite . Why cookies ? And what kind of cookies ? Nobody brings cookies . I mean , Maureen is a champion baker . She wins almost every year . " I wiped myself and got up . " You just don 't understand , " I said as I pulled up my pants . " These people expect fancy . Why , last year Ellen won with a Croquenbouche ! How can I possibly compete with that ? " That stopped me in my tracks . Hmmm , there was that . Every year I was stuck bringing home some fancy dessert I 'd tried that ended up being a disaster . I was always so disappointed , I ended up just throwing the stuff away . At least this way , I could drown my sorrows in cookies and milk . I went into the kitchen and got out my recipe book . I had almost everything , but I was out of vanilla . " I 'm going to the store , Harold , " I called . " You need anything ? " The following day , I arranged my Toll House cookies on a pretty plate and covered them with Saran Wrap . They looked good . I 'd tasted one , and they tasted good . I 'd given a crumb to Harold , and he pronounced them just as good as his previous roommate 's . But my heart sank when I arrived at Ellen 's house . All the fancy desserts were laid out on her dining room table . Ellen made Petit Fours , all exactly the same size , but each decorated with a different fancy design . Ellen put her arm around me , giving me a one - armed shoulder hug . " Don 't worry , my dear , " she said condescendingly . " I 'm sure they 'll be lovely . " " Yeah , better than all that fancy stuff , " I heard as their voices trailed away . Later that afternoon , after Bridge was over and the contest had been decided , I went home . The first thing I did was head for the bathroom . " So , how did it go ? " asked Harold . So , Joan , there you have it . I suppose you 'll be ready to call the nut squad after you get this letter , but I 'm really fine . Harold has encouraged me to try to make peanut butter cookies next time . If they turn out well , I 'll send you a dozen . Margaret was sixty - eight years old . She was still in good shape , for the shape she was in . She could still care for herself , and if there was anyone else around for her to care for , she could watch over them as well . She made her way into the kitchen where she put the kettle on the stove . She turned on the gas and lit the burner with a match . The electronic starter went out some time ago , and of course , there was no way to get it fixed . Still , it lit with a match , and for that she was grateful . In fact , she was grateful that she still had some gas . Once this was gone , though , that would be it . She would be reduced to building a fire in the driveway of her mobile home . " At least I remember how to do that , " she said to the stove . She got a bag of Lipton tea from the cupboard and put it in a cup . She waited for the kettle to boil as she thought over the last few months . If she looked out of her living room window , everything pretty much looked the same as it always did . She could see Twila 's mobile home across the street , sandwiched between Harriet 's on the left and George 's on the right . They 'd been nice people , and Margaret missed them . But they were gone now , along with everyone else . It hadn 't taken long . A disease , the likes of which had never been seen before , had ravaged the nation , and almost everyone was dead within a week or two . Some sort of plague , the television news commentator said , before there was no more television . Something had escaped from some government lab ; some chemical weapon they 'd been working on to keep their enemies in check . It got loose , and now look what happened . She took a sniff of the tea , but wrinkled her nose in disgust . Nothing . She had no sense of smell whatsoever . The funny thing was that although all the people were dead , everything else was alive and vibrant . The trees and grass were still green , the flowers continued to grow , the birds still sang in the trees . And God knew the cockroaches were just as plentiful as ever . " I 'd like to smell those flowers again , " she said sadly . When the Death came , most people succumbed within a few days of contracting the disease , whatever it was . Margaret fell sick herself , but for some reason known only to God , she recovered . The only thing that seemed to be affected was her sense of smell . She had none . " So , I 'd sure like to know what you were thinking , God , " Margaret said as she slowly sipped her tea . " I mean , why me ? Why let me live when all the young people might have actually done something to heal this old world of ours . Why pick me to live ? I 'll be dead soon enough in any case . " There was no answer . Margaret shuffled into her bedroom . The water had long since stopped running , but she kept a basin full to wash with . She gave herself what her mother used to call a " PTA bath , " which Margaret had always found to be rather vulgar . She preferred to call her morning ablutions a " bird bath " instead , rather than " piss , tits , and armpits . " She washed and dried herself , then hung the towel over the bar . Why she bothered to bathe , she did not know . There was nobody around to notice if she stank or not , and she herself couldn 't tell either . But she 'd had a bath every morning of her life for sixty - eight years , and saw no reason to end the practice now . Besides , what if she really did meet someone else still alive ? She wouldn 't want to offend them , whomever it was . For some reason , again known only to God , just as Margaret was the only human left alive ( that she could tell , anyway ) , Scruffy was the only dog . He was a mutt of indeterminate breed , part Lab maybe , part German Shepherd , part St . Bernard . It was hard to tell . But Scruffy was a big dog , and Margaret found that comforting for some reason . The dog headed for the kitchen . Margaret got a manual can opener from the drawer , reached into the cupboard and pulled out a can of dog food . She 'd found the food in Scruffy 's house and brought it to her own . Scruffy 's owners were the first she 'd had to take care of . Scruffy ate quickly , then sat on his haunches , as if he were waiting for instructions . She sighed . " Well , I guess there isn 't much choice in the matter , is there , old boy ? " she asked . Scruffy wagged his tail in reply . Margaret went through the laundry room and opened the back door . She collected her heavy gloves from the top of the washing machine . The shovel remained where she had placed it the day before . She hoisted it to her shoulder , groaning a little as she did so . " Lord , you really could have picked somebody a little younger for this job , You think ? I really am too old for this nonsense . " There was no answer . Margaret had buried almost all of who had been the residents of her mobile home park . Scruffy had led her to the homes where bodies lay , stinking and bloated , though Margaret couldn 't smell them . Some homes were empty , the residents having left in hopes of outrunning the Death , but there was still one left with bodies that needed to be laid to rest . It was not pleasant work . At first , she didn 't know where to bury her neighbors . The cemetery was quite a distance away , and loading the bodies in her car was exhausting . In the end , she finally decided that she would simply bury them in their own small yards . She could still dig a hole that might not have been the requisite six feet deep , but was still deep enough to drag a body to , wrestle it in , and cover it . After she had buried Scruffy 's owners , the dog seemed to know what she was doing , and helped her by digging alongside her . It was hard work for both of them , but there was no rush . She couldn 't smell the bodies , and Scruffy didn 't seem to care . She was working on space D3 . The Cartwrights had lived there , and Margaret was happy that neither of them were large people . They were both in bed , which made it easier for Margaret to simply wrap the sheets around them and drag them outside . She tried to be gentle with the bodies . After all , they were people she had known and liked . They 'd played Bingo together on Wednesday nights , attended the same Bridge games on Tuesdays , and lounged around the pool together on warm summer evenings . That evening , after her work was done , she fed Scruffy and herself , then sat on the front porch of her mobile home . All the bodies in her small park had now been laid to rest . She had long since equipped her trailer with everything she needed . Eternity stretched before her in a long , unending , lonely road . The evening began to close in around her . An soft breeze stirred the leaves of the Elm in her front yard . The flowers began to close against the dusk . A meadowlark sang briefly , then went silent . Scruffy rose and stretched . He started down the steps , then turned when Margaret got up from her chair . " Scruffy , stay with me tonight , would you ? " Margaret hated the pleading in her voice , but suddenly the thought of being alone was frightening . " I … I don 't want to be by myself . " She sat down again . A tear gathered at the corner of her eye , and she wiped it away with one hand . " Please ? " Scruffy stood at the bottom step . He faced his old home and stared for a while . Then he turned and trotted back up the stairs . He placed his head on Margaret 's knee , looked up at her , and wagged his tail gently . Susan watched the sunshine creep across the face on the canvas , gradually illuminating cheek and hair , jaw and lips . The oil painting stood on an easel in the corner , awaiting only the finishing touches on the complicated background design . The face had been finished some time ago , but the background was more challenging . She had decisions to make . Susan Davis had been an accomplished artist ; good , but not great . Competent , but not inspired . And she wanted more than anything to make a name for herself in the art world . She 'd had a few gallery shows , a few exhibits in the park , but still , she remained only a minor player in her chosen profession . And then , he had arrived . He 'd walked into the gallery where her pictures were being shown and made her an offer she couldn 't refuse . He 'd offered her wealth , and travel , and most of all , recognition . All she had to do was paint portraits for him whenever he asked . Very specific portraits . It seemed a small price to pay . There was a contract . One she dared not break . To be fair , he had kept his part of the bargain . Almost immediately after signing the contract , someone had bought one of her painting for an exorbitant , positively outrageous sum . And then more , and more , and more . She made more money than she literally knew what to do with . Her name became known throughout the art world . Articles were written about her , documentaries made for television detailing her meteoric rise . And travel ? She went everywhere . London , Rome , Istanbul , Moscow , even Timbuktu . She stayed in the finest hotels , drank the most expensive wines , ate caviar and lobster and filet mignon . He was beside her every day , reminding her that none of this would be possible without him . Her entire life was his to command , and she was grateful , for she had grown to love her lifestyle . The wealth , the travel , the fame , the opulence of her life was like a drug , and she could not imagine living without it . Yes , and then . He came to her one day . Where was it , that first portrait ? She thought about that . There had been so many now . Of course . She had been in Milan , relaxing in the private Jacuzzi attached to her suite , when he came in . " Of course ! " Susan had exclaimed . " I thought perhaps you 'd forgotten , since you hadn 't asked me to paint any portraits for you . " He sat on the side of the tub , idly popping the bubbles that swirled around Susan 's naked body . " Oh , I haven 't forgotten , " he said , his voice as smooth and seductive as Ghirardelli chocolate . " Tomorrow morning , meet me in the lobby . I have your first commission , and I 'll tell you what to do . " The following morning , she met him , as arranged , in the lobby of her hotel . He was alone , and she looked around for someone who might be the subject of the portrait he wanted done . " Oh , you won 't have a live person sitting for the portrait , " he said . He pulled a photograph from his pocket and handed it to her . The photograph was of an old man , his face deeply lined , wearing a flannel shirt and jeans . He sat in a wheelchair , his oxygen tank in the chair 's holder and the canula in his nose . Susan 's brow furrowed . " Him ? Who is he ? " So , she did . She painted what she saw , and what she imagined the old man 's hospital room to look like . The instant she put the final dab of color on the portrait , her benefactor arrived . He seemed pleased . Then he handed her the photograph of a young soldier . " Paint the soldier , " he said , " and in the background I want a battle scene . Afghanistan , or Iran , or some desert place like that , " he instructed . After that , the portraits kept coming , young and old , men and women , all shapes , sizes and colors of people . A few dogs , but not many . He wanted their portraits , with varying backgrounds , none of which made any sense to her . But , she had signed a contract , and she kept her word , as he had kept his . He brought her a photograph of a famous world leader . She recognized him immediately . " Him ? " she 'd exclaimed . " You want me to paint him ? " She painted the portrait of the world leader . She painted the background , an ugly , complicated , mishmash of what she imagined a scene would look like if a bomb went off behind him . It was distressing work , so she turned on the television to keep her company . By coincidence , the world leader was giving a speech . The room in which he spoke looked eerily like the bomb - destroyed space she had just painted in the background of his portrait . And as soon as she placed the last dab of color on the painting , the picture on the television went blank . She changed the channel . All over the stations came the report that the world leader had been killed in an explosion . And when the cameras panned in on the destruction , Susan 's painting showed the exact same scene . She was stunned . Surely this had to be a coincidence . She hadn 't caused the bomb to go off , had she ? Of course not . That would be ridiculous . It HAD to be a coincidence . Didn 't it ? After that , she paid closer attention to her subjects , and to the backgrounds he wanted her to paint . She searched the newspapers and watched the news in the days following the completion of every portrait . And without fail , the person who was the subject died in the same manner as the backgrounds . Dear God , who was this man ? Surprisingly , Susan had never questioned who her benefactor was . Not really . He had said his name was Nick , and given her some papers to sign , but she had been totally besotted by his promises and not read the contract at all . The words were tiny , and filled with legalese , and there were pages and pages and pages of them . Who had time for that ? She made time . She read every word , and buried deep on page 17 , she found it . According to the contract , she was required to paint the portraits of whomever Nick deemed necessary , with the backgrounds he demanded . Failure to do so would result in the forfeiture of her immortal soul . She confronted him . She attempted to rip up the contract , but the paper would not tear . She tried to burn it , but it would not catch fire . And then he gave her another photograph , this one of a little boy , perhaps eight or nine years old . He was a sweet - faced child , haunted around the eyes by a long illness , thin . Too young to die . She painted the child with care , with love , with an ache in her heart that she , she was to be the cause of this child 's demise . But , what else could she do ? Where was there an out ? Tears streaming down her face , she attacked the contract again , peering at the tiny print until her head ached and her eyes burned . There had to be a way out of this . And then , on page 23 , there it was . According to the contract , if any subject of any portrait failed to expire immediately upon the portrait 's completion , then the terms of the contract would be null and void . Perfect . All she had to do was figure out how to make sure this little boy lived . But how ? She just sat for a while , not thinking , not praying , not doing anything . Just closed her eyes and sat . She became conscious of her breath , her body , the figures that played in the darkness behind her eyes . And in the stillness , came an idea , and with the idea came peace . Susan knew he was watching her closely . He inspected the portrait every chance he got . He peered over her shoulder while she worked , made suggestions , urged her to hurry and complete it . She claimed artist 's privilege and said good art could not be rushed . Especially with a child as beautiful as this one . But she painted . She painted as if her life depended on it , as if the boy 's life depended on it . She painted far into the night , long after the sun had set . The background of the painting was complicated . It showed the hospital room of the child , complete with heart monitor , intravenous bags full of fluid , medicine bottles , and his grieving parents , their faces contorted with pain . Just before midnight , Nick arrived at Susan 's little studio . " Is it finished ? " he asked . He examined the painting , studied the boy 's sickly face , his parent 's sad countenances , and nodded . He left , but returned in ten minutes , furious . " I thought you said it was finished , " he growled . Then she moved away from the painting , and he gasped . The painting had been utterly transformed . Where before the boy 's face had been sickly , now it shone with health , his cheeks rosy and his eyes bright . His parent 's faces , once contorted with grief were now shining with joy . And around the boy 's neck , almost invisible to the naked eye , Susan had painted a golden chain , and a tiny gold cross . In an obscure little art gallery , somewhere off the beaten path , you will find the last known painting by the world - renowned artist , Susan Davis . It is of a little boy , looking healthy and happy , playing in a meadow filled with flowers and surrounded by trees . The sunshine surrounds him , and the light illuminates the necklace he wears , a small golden chain with a tiny cross glowing upon the skin of his chest . Susan Davis dropped mysteriously out of sight soon after this portrait was completed , but there is some speculation that she is currently working as a waitress somewhere in New Mexico .