Thomas Nightingale

     As we were leaving I asked him who’d carved the names.
     “I did it myself,” said Nightingale. “The hospital encouraged us to take up a hobby; I chose woodcarving. I didn’t tell them why.”
     “Why not?”
     We ducked back into the service corridors. “The doctors were already worried that I was too morbid.”
     “Why did you carve the names?”
     “Oh,” he said. “Somebody had to do it and as far as I could tell I was the only one still active. I also had this ridiculous notion that it might help.”
     “Did it?”
     “No,” he said. “Not really.”