The right arm lies straight out at the side, taped cruelly to a board to secure a needle so that fluid may drip in; the left arm is across the sunken chest, which rises and falls with the uneven breaths. I reach for the long, thin fingers that are lying on the chest. They are ice-cold, and I quickly move to the wrist and feel for the faint pulse. Mrs. Clark's eyes open somewhat as her head turns toward me slightly. I bend close to her and scarcely hear as she whispers, "Water". Taking a glass of water from the table, I put my finger over the end of the straw and allow a few drops of the cool moisture to slide into her mouth and ease her thirst. She makes no attempt to swallow; there is just not enough strength.