i am sixteen years old but staring at my own dying soul , shrouded in a white knit hospital blanket from memorial sloan-kettering cancer center in new york city where brenda narramore has come to say farewell to her long-ago summer love , where my wife has kept constant vigil , sleeping by my side in the hospital bed , forgiving me when i bribed an orderly to sneak me a pack of marlboros so i could creep downstairs to the sidewalk with my rolling iv pole of postchemo drips to have one last smoke .