When Arthur gave her the cardboard box, his three children were already outside his hospital room deciding what she deserved.

Arthur could hear them through the door. His eyes were closed, but his fingers tightened around Camille’s hand every time their voices rose above the hallway noise.

Then he opened his eyes.

“Camille,” he whispered.

She leaned forward. “I’m right here.”

He moved one hand slowly from beneath the blanket and set an old cardboard box between them. Her name was written across the top in black marker, the letters slightly uneven in the way of someone whose hands had recently started to fail him