He said it would have to be a potluck, with them bringing the food, because cooking had become difficult for him. In truth, everything had become difficult. Going upstairs was easy enough; three large, effortless leaps did the job. Going down was harder. He was afraid he might tumble and break a leg, so he held the railing and eased down step by step, like an old man with gout and bad hips. He had also developed a tendency to run into walls, because momentum had become hard to judge and even harder to control.

Myra asked him about the ramp now covering the steps to the stoop. Doctor Bob and Missy were more concerned about the wheelchair sitting in the corner of the living room, and the chest harness—made for people with little or no ability to sit upright—draped over its back. Deirdre asked no questions, only looked at him with wise, unhappy eyes.

They ate a tasty vegetarian casserole (Missy), au gratin potatoes with a cheesy sauce (Myra), and topped the meal off with a lumpy but tasty angel food cake that was only slightly burned on the bottom (Doctor Bob). The wine was good, but the talk and the laughter were better.

When they were finished, he said: “Time to fess up. I’ve been lying to you. This has been going quite a bit faster than I said it was.”

“Scott, no!” Missy cried.

Doctor Bob nodded, seeming unsurprised. “How much faster?”

“Three pounds a day, not one or two.”

“And how much do you weigh now?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been avoiding the scale. Let’s find out.”

Scott tried to stand. His thighs connected with the table and he flew forward, knocking over two wineglasses when he put out his hands to stop himself. Deirdre quickly picked up the tablecloth and threw it over the spill.

“Sorry, sorry,” Scott said. “Don’t know my own strength these days.”

He turned as gingerly as a man on roller skates, and started toward the back half of the house. No matter how carefully he tried to walk, his steps became leaps. His remaining weight wanted him on the earth; his muscles insisted he rise above it. He overbalanced and had to grab one of the newly installed clamps to keep from going headlong into the hallway.

“Oh God,” Deirdre said. “It must be like learning to walk all over again.”

You should have seen the last time I tried to get the mail, Scott thought. That was a real learning experience.

At least none of them were revisiting the clinic idea. Not that their failure to do that surprised him. A single look at his locomotion, at once awkward, ridiculous, and weirdly graceful, was enough to dispel the idea that a clinic might do him any good. This was a private matter now. They understood that. He was glad.

They all crowded into the bathroom and watched him stand on the Ozeri scale. “Jesus,” Missy said quietly. “Oh, Scott.”

The readout was 30.2 pounds.

*

He made his way back to the dining room with them following along behind. He went as carefully as a man using stones to cross a creek, and still ended up running into the table again. Missy instinctively reached out to steady him, but he waved her off before she could touch him.

When they were seated, he said, “I’m all right with this. Fine, in fact. Really.”

Myra was very pale. “How can you be?”

“I don’t know. I just am. But this is our farewell dinner. I won’t see you guys again. Except for Deirdre. I need someone to help me at the end. Will you do it?”

“Yes, of course.” She didn’t hesitate, only put an arm around her wife, who had begun to cry.

“I just want to say . . .” Scott stopped, cleared his throat. “I want to say that I wish we had more time. You’ve been good friends to me.”

“There’s no compliment more sincere than that,” Doctor Bob said. He was wiping his eyes with a napkin.

“It’s not fair!” Missy burst out. “It’s not goddam fair!”

“Well, no,” Scott agreed, “it isn’t. But I’m not leaving any kids behind, my ex is happy where she is, there’s that, and it’s fairer than cancer, or Alzheimer’s, or being a burn victim in a hospital ward. I guess I’d go down in history, if anyone talked about it.”

“Which we won’t,” Doctor Bob said.

“No,” Deirdre agreed. “We won’t. Can you tell me what it is you need me to do, Scott?”

He could and did, mentioning everything except what was tucked away in a paper bag in the hall closet. They listened in silence, and no one spoke a word of disagreement.

When he finished, Myra asked, very timidly, “What does it feel like, Scott? What do you feel like?”

Scott thought of how he’d felt running down Hunter’s Hill, when he’d gotten his second wind and the whole world had stood revealed in the usually hidden glory of ordinary things—the leaden, lowering sky, the bunting flapping from the downtown buildings, every precious pebble and cigarette butt and beer can discarded by the side of the road. His own body for once working at top capacity, every cell loaded with oxygen.

“Elevated,” he said at last.

He looked at Deirdre McComb, saw her shining eyes fixed on his face, and knew she understood why he had chosen her.

*

Myra coaxed Bill into his cat carrier. Doctor Bob took it down to his 4Runner and stowed it in the back. Then the four of them stood on the porch, their breath pluming in the cold night air. Scott remained in the entry, holding tight to one of the clamps.