Over the past few weeks me and the rest of the Michel family has been cartin' around a foul-smelling trailer-dweller for a very honorable reason: her husband is dying. This couple of means by no means had met Jean-Marc Michel because he worked on some lands adjacent to where they lived. They were friendly. They helped. When he needed them to shut off some valves, they were there. But then, the landlord booted them off. The parcel was too valuable to have their kind soiling it. So later, this month, Dédé, the man, falls ill. Something's wrong with his stomach. "The doctors don't feed him!" wails Christiane, his woman. "I don't think you can eat with stomach cancer," I offer. So thus it is our job, to bring Christiane to the hospital once a day to visit Dédé. She has few teeth. She smells of cheap beer and cigarette juice. She complains and wants us to do errands for her. Dédé can't be convinced that the oxygen tube is a good thing for him, so she plans to tie his hands so he can't pull the tube out. Today he is dead.
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