The room is crowded, breathing bodies, whirring machines, but still he is alone, the single-use gowns and gloves a barrier from those he loves, in the sanitized room quarantined. They come to see him, talk even though he cannot speak, breathing with augmented lungs, electrically pulsating to keep him here. Circulation greatly diminished from a mere month before causes black to creep up from toes to feet, his unruly heart refusing to pump as it should—would, if not for that foreign invader resisting arrest, stalking boldly where it pleases, bivouacking in heart chamber walls. Too stubborn to leave, too well fortified to be run out, it has decided how this one will go. But vital functions curtailed in effort to fight, become the grisly and minutely more manageable alternative, to choose that gradual toxin over an unbearable bursting in his chest, a nearly impossible decision to let go or let explode. So we let go.