Jasper Bartlett was eight years old, sitting next to the hospital bed. His grandmother lay there, hiccupping and looking around blindly. Her cancer had set in quickly, and the doctors expected a quick drop off—she'd be gone in a month or less. Jasper loved his Grammy Ellen. All his life, he had her there. As she lived only two miles from the Bartlett household, his father would drop him off if he had some place to be, and Jasper loved each time that happened, because even though he didn't see his father very much, his Grammy would take excellent care of him. Ellen would bake cookies when she knew he was coming, and if she didn't, they'd bake them together. She'd even let him eat the raw cookie dough after his father said he could get salmonella—though Jasper wasn't really sure what that was.
She'd take him to the park, or to the beach. She'd take him anywhere he'd want, and he didn't think something so solid in his life would slip away.
She looked at him now, sitting by her bed, and he could tell she didn't recognize him. His eyes welled up with tears, and he reached out his hand to hers.
"Let go! Who are you? Nurse!"
"But Grammy… I love you…"
"Nurse!"
Two nurses came in, and the one with bouncy blonde hair gently laid a hand on Jasper's shaking shoulders and led him to a playroom full of other children who seemed so happy, and Jasper couldn't stop crying.
Ellen died that evening.