I met Mrs De K in a corridor. She was crying and I felt very sorry for her even though I wasn’t supposed to. She cried because she was lost and I told her I was lost as well, and weren’t we all. I walked her down the hall, to her room. She showed me her fingernails. They were long and pointy and old. She asked me where she could get them trimmed. I want to be shot when I reach the point I can no longer trim my own nails. I think about this a lot, about killing myself before I get old, about not having kids because I wouldn’t be able to kill myself before I got old without worrying about them thinking me selfish. Anyway, Mrs De K was crying and showing me her pointy nails when we first met. I grew fond of her in spite of knowing they all come here to die. It’s easier not to care, or so I heared, but I ran errands for her anyway, because she is one of my favourites. She used to call me by my first name when I got back from fetching her pills, her mail or her purse, but now she calls me by my coworker’s name, or the name of her daughter and sometimes by the name of her grandchild. I keep running errands for her, eventhough it breaks my heart to be called by my own first name one day and to be forgotten again the next.