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Matthew T. Jenson died in his sleep on Christmas morning. His remains lay wrapped in Egyptian cloth and silk upon a rosewood divan. The doctor, upon examining his limp frame, would later conclude that his passing was the result of “severe bronchial hemorrhaging brought upon by a globular roving blood clot,” though none of us really knew what that meant. Up until his sudden death Matthew’s medical records were seldom visited – he had made it of utmost priority that his health be top notch, his physical condition be of a “most superior upkeep”. The fact that Matthew was, at least to us, in peak physical condition made the circumstances of his demise that much more peculiar. We all had our own theories on the matter - Timothy believed his death to be the cause of excessive and blunt force trauma, though there were no bruises or other indications to support this (Timothy was always slightly behind the rest of us as far as smarts went, or as Margaret put it, he seemed to have “one foot off the merry-go-round,” however most of us were convinced she never really had the proper grasp of that saying) but mostly we left the speculation to the physician.

I was in the downstairs dining room when the doctor first approached me regarding Matthew. He had with him a leather briefcase which carried his tools and other items a doctor would employ. It rested against makeshift hand-cart, fashioned out of rusted metal and designed specifically for him. The disruptive clanking of the crude thing coming down the staircase preceded his aberrance. The doctor himself was dressed to toe in a peach colored lab coat, a stethoscope around his neck being the only conventional thing about him. As he entered the dining room to greet me he set his case against an antique dresser beside the table and checked the watch in his side pocket. He sneezed quite rapidly, three times, as if out of no where and I said, bless you.
“My dear boy,” he said, “my thanks to you.” I nodded and told him he was welcome. “Your manners, I must say, in a time of great dismay catch my heart with a warmth and generosity. Though surely this must be, for you, a trying thing, take comfort that it is the way of living things.”
“I appreciate your concern, doctor,” I stumbled, caught off guard at the melodic manner in which he spoke.