I hesitated when Greg in a whisper begged me to hold him. Greg, forsaken by lover and family to suffer alone the last lash of AIDS, asked for arms around him and I remember his breath, tiny as a baby’s on my face, when I lifted him and squeezed death against my heart. To cross a bridge in fog is to memorize fear one step at a time, to believe in the danger of life and water and the eternal nothingness of one wrong turn. To die in combat can be noble, to die old among your children, beautiful. But to die knowing those you love fear for their lives leaves you only the clipboard care of masked strangers in hospital white touching you with rubber gloves. I left Greg early, my “appointment” a lie I could live with as I rushed away to the men’s room for the scalding water and stinging hand soap on my face. In 231 a man who was my friend would not see another summer, would never know that I scrubbed my skin raw, erasing all of him that I could, my face red as shame in the fogging mirror.