[ He pauses at Michel's words, about to pick up another spoonful of porridge. Tell it not to stop he says and when has anyone asked that of him over the past many decades? He's heard several versions of please die, most of them uninspiring and the only other person who has at least some little attachment to him is Vincent who'd never encourage him to remain alive one day longer than strictly necessary. It's not self-pity, oh no - self-awareness, he thinks, is a great cure for that particular little ailment. He just knows what he is and what he isn't and that's a relief to the world, no doubt.

Yet here is Michel, turning things on their heads and Timm likes him a lot for a lot of reasons but this one, he thinks, might be close to the top of the list.

So naturally, in a show of good faith, he takes the pills and swallows them along with a great gulp of orange juice, fresh but pulp-less, smooth against the insides of his throat. He nearly doesn't feel the pills, dissolving amidst all the acidity. They are, then they aren't. Unlike him, for the time being, and Michel too, who is older yet and nowhere near done living his life.

We shouldn't run and fall, he says. Timm licks his lips and goes back to the porridge. His fingers leave faint, blue imprints on the glass as he sets it down. ]

I agree that you shouldn't. You'd look misplaced in a hospital bed, my dear.

[ A half-laugh and a loose-handed gesture down his own, narrow frame. ]

Whereas I'd merely look like another piece of the inventory.