Linda wondered whether he'd propped himself up by his arms or whether he'd found an inner reserve of strength. She thought about telling him to relax, to lie back, but something told her to keep quiet. He was gazing directly at her, a purposeful look in his eyes, stern, but with an edge of kindness. Linda imagined that he must have looked this way to his secretary when he called her in to his office to reprimand her or discuss another important matter.
He swallowed, and started to speak. "You used to dance," he said, his voice gaining a few extra decibels in authority, losing its creaky sound for just that moment. "Why don't you dance any more?" As soon as the words tumbled out of his mouth, he closed his eyes and eased his head back down onto the pillow.
Linda knew he was lapsing into sleep but felt that she couldn't ignore his statement. She patted his hand and said "I'll give the matter some thought, Mr. Gibson."
When she arrived at work the next morning, Mary told her the news. "There'll be a new patient in 202B. Mr. Gibson died just after your shift yesterday."
Linda realized exactly what she had to do. She had to learn to dance.