“He’s asleep when I go in, of course. The machines are making their noises, doing their thing. I sit on the uncomfortable chair at the side of his bed and watch him sleep for a while. The “I ❤ NY” mug is by the window next to all the flowers and cards, and I think of him telling Google that he’s alone, and I feel terrible again. “I’m sorry, Grandpa,” I say. I watch to see if his face changes, but it doesn’t. “I’m sorry I left. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you more. And I should have gotten you more than a coffee mug. And I hope now that the goddamn Cubs don’t suck so horribly and they actually win something someday. You’ve been a really great grandpa, and you deserve better than this.” I reach for his hand and hold it awhile. I wish he’d wake up again—if just for a few seconds so he’d know that I’m here. He doesn’t, though.”