Once he asked Doc point blank about his legs. “Will they ever get better?” He and Doc had grown up in town together; they knew each other too well to lie. Doc had shifted his big frame in the chair beside the bed, and got out his pipe and fumbled with it, and looked at him. “No, I’m afraid not,” he replied slowly, “I’m afraid there’s nothing to do.” Nothing to do but lie here and wait till it’s over. Nothing to do but lie here like this, and be waited on, and be a burden to everybody. He had a little insurance, and his son in California sent what he could to help, but now with the added expense of a nurse and all. . . . “Tell me, Doc,” he whispered, for his voice wasn’t as strong these days, “what happens when it’s over?” And Doc put away the needle and fumbled with the catch of his black bag and said he supposed that you went on to someplace else called the Hereafter. But he shook his head; he always argued with Doc. “No,” he told him, “it isn’t someplace else. It’s someplace you’ve been where you want to be again, someplace you were happiest.” Doc didn’t understand, and he couldn’t explain it any better. He knew what he meant, but the shot was taking effect and he was tired. The pain had been worse lately, and Doc had started giving him shots with a needle so he could sleep. But he didn’t really sleep, because the memories kept coming back to him, or maybe he kept going back to the memories.