Dear Reader, I'm channeling a character. It's what I do. I'm a writer, who sits and stares, waiting for sparks of inspiration to break surface into a coherent thought. The key is to allow, never force, because divine guidance, at first, is fragile-a translucent veil, a distant echo-such that the moment one reaches and grabs, it is no longer. But I've learned a trick. I simply start writing. His name is Ed Mees. He's dying. He doesn't want to tell his story, but I'm here nevertheless. To write down what he says, to interpret what he means, to listen, to hold him if necessary. Although, I'm hoping it won't be necessary. Chin up, I say to myself, to him. I just want to document what he's thinking, how he's feeling. I want to learn something so when my time comes I'll be ready. Or readier. Or not so afraid. And so begins The Dying of Ed Mees.