My neighbour, Mr. Bertieri, told me that in ninety-three days he would lose his sight. I asked how he knew this to the day and he said that his wife had told him in a dream. There is a flower, he said, that takes ninety days to open. I would like it to be the last thing I ever see. Would you help me fetch it?

High windows lowered soft light into the nursery. The stem was brittle as nestling bone and it stooped into a bud. The gardener’s hands were like cotton. Later I heard that he slept on soil and woke through the night to talk to his flowers.