From the journals:
Luis died on the 22nd of February. The jungle vines of tubes from the life support devices were hacked away; the intravenous bags of solutions dangling like overripe fruit from stainless steel branches were plucked and packed. I was not there to protest. My goodbye had been that afternoon after a doctor had allowed me to go over the x-rays and the rest of the final pages of his medical history. I knew then that my littlest brother would not face tomorrow with me.
His hand was cold as I held it and my brain screamed goodbye. I regret now that I had not covered him up, that I had not insisted he be kept warm. Luis always wrapped himself up almost completely when he slept. As a baby, he had even refused to drink cold water. It had to be above room temperature.
He was cold then, in his last days. I hope he dreamt well. I hope he dreamt of me, and of the songs we would sing in the car. I hope he dreamed of his dogs. Luis had just undergone his Confirmation as a Catholic, and if he was right then I will not see him again. Perhaps I will go where the dogs are, and keep them company and whine along with them when we dream of our masters.