Every thirty minutes the pace maker from a dead mans heart buzzes behind my head. I have come to accept this as a part of my day. The heart has been sitting there for weeks, resting, buzzing, resting, buzzing. The man who used to own this machine, who grew the heart himself from his first day of life until his last, who equipped it with metal and batteries and some other machinery that made it pump and beat, clearing out dirty blood and sending fresh, oxygenated blood all over his body. A bloody detox, thousands of times per day. His heart, his machinery, buzzing in a plastic bin behind me. His hard work dwindled to this. He must wonder where it has gone, his prize. The very breath of his life. He has left it to us to observe, like a child who says to her parent, "Look at me, Ma. Look what I did!" Only, we are no parents. And he cannot exclaim with pride as he presents to us his prize. He is gone. So I work, and I listen. Every thirty minutes, I listen.