Bill pictures himself having trouble breathing and waking to a room full of concerned faces. He'd been terrified of dying his entire life, and as much as he tried not to think about it, death was always in the back of his head, around every corner, and hovering on each horizon. He'd brushed shoulders with death on a few occasions, but in his carefree youth it had all seemed like an abstract impossible thing to ever happen to him; but with each passing decade, he began to gauge the time he probably had left. By his forties, what he considered his halfway point at best, he had come to know just one thing: you will only get older. The next thing you know, you're looking back instead of forward. And now, at the climax of all those years of worry, sleepless nights, and denials, Bill finally finds himself staring his death in the face, surrounded by people he no longer recognizes and feels no closer attachment to than the thousands of relatives who'd come before. And as the Sun continues to set, he finally comes to realize the dumb irony in how he had been waiting for this moment his entire life, this stupid awkward moment of death that had invaded and distracted so many days with stress and wasted time.