Dina's home is on a hill. A Victorian home, built at the turn of this century and remodelled twice, two storeys high, its window-sills covered with herbs and flowering plants, its shingled roof ending in carved eaves. The windows are large, the hallways bright. The light reflected off the shimmering water of the ocean comes in silver strands through the windows. The curtains are opened wide, because she thinks there should be light in a home, especially this one where the residents come to escape the stygian despair of their lives.
She stands at a window and stares at the seagulls flying across the backdrop of a setting sun; far to the north she can see the Pacific fog rolling inland like a smokescreen on a movie set.
She is crying silently. One of the residents has just died. Every time someone dies she cries like she did the first time. The sudden shock of finding a woman whom she had fed just a few moments ago lying in bed with a beatific smile had almost made her throw up and run down the hill in fear. Chuck too must have had a happy smile frozen on his face when he let the book he was reading fall on his chest and closed his eyes.
They all die smiling, it must be the light, this glorious light of the western skies that helps them conjure visions of heaven just moments before the light go out of their own eyes. And every time she cries with renewed grief.