…

“Aren’t you even the tiniest bit worried that if we do this, people will think you’ve lost your marbles?” I figure I should give Mr. Sands one last chance to think this through.

“Grace, they’ve been saying my marbles are gone for years, so what the hell do I care?”

I squeeze a big blob of gel in the center of my left hand. “But doesn’t it bother you? People saying things like that?”

“Can’t let it.” He purses his lips. “You can’t let what other people say about you affect the way you go about your business. You know why?”

I shake my head, then rub my hands together to spread the gel evenly between them. I don’t exactly know how to make a Mohawk since I’ve only ever done one on myself in the shower, mid-shampoo. But it seems unlikely that Mr. Sands would have a “preferred” technique for spiking his hair, so I just go for it.

“The reason,” Mr. Sands continues, “is because people get things wrong. All the time. They get things wrong over and over and over again, and once you’ve gotten that figured out, their judgments or what they say about you seems a lot less important.”

“So… what? You’re just supposed to let it all go? Write everyone off as a moron?” I come to the front of Mr. Sands’s wheelchair to see how the hairdo looks head on. A little off center, and more like a faux-hawk than full-on Mohawk, but fairly respectable considering what I had to work with.

“Not everyone’s a moron,” he adds, “and it’s always a good idea to keep a few smart folks around to get a second opinion every now and again. That’s what my wife and I always tried to teach our daughters. But for the most part, it’s about following your instincts and doing what you think is right—your life, your control.”

“Ah-ha,” I say, “but then how do you know you’re not one of the morons yourself?” I pull up the brakes on Mr. Sands’s wheels and roll his chair over to the full-length mirror on the back of the door so he can check it out.

When Mr. Sands sees his reflection he starts to laugh. “Am I really supposed to answer that question looking like this?”

“You like?”

“The ladies in this joint are going to go wild when they see me!”

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re always working it, aren’t you?”

“I’ve always tried,” he replies with a smile. “Now my dear, I have a different sort of request to ask of you.”

“Anything,” I say. “Name it.”

Mr. Sands pauses and waits until our eyes connect in the mirror. I smile at him and he smiles back. Then he says eight words that will change both of our lives forever:

“Grace, I need you to help me die.”