Robert’s fingers ached. He tried to curl them into his palm and out again, one by one and then all at once, but nothing moved. He stared at his fingers, once so agile, so lithe, and watched as they sat there on the table top in silence, unmoving.

Anna’s throat burned. She had been unable to talk for weeks, and when she tried to speak to ask for water or tea nothing came out. She had to write her requests on a pad, and a young nurse brought her liquids that brought no relief from the searing pain.

Carl’s feet throbbed. They were elevated, with no pressure on them, but they pulsated as if he had walked on coals all day. Every day was like this. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t think because of the constant, unforgiving pain.

Beth’s eyes were cloudy. She couldn’t see much anymore, and when she did she couldn’t make out what things really were. She thought clouds were paintings and cars were animals. When she closed her eyes, she welcomed the darkness.

With fingers, throat, feet, and eyes burning, remembering their earlier years, the four musicians sat in a circle with their manager.

“The fans are asking for a reunion tour. Nobody has seen you all for decades; they want you to play your first album.”

Robert was the first to laugh. “Look at us. We’re as good as dead. What would the tour be called?”

“The Dead Musicians’ Support Group,” Beth laughed like she hadn’t laughed in years, thinking of the woes of aging.