It was a surreal day. Anywhere from four to nine people sat in a room without AC during a hot and humid Florida day, talking about anything from phone games like Words With Friends to old times in New York and Miami, all simultaneously trying to forget a cold and bitter fact that stared them in the face. Conversations about Angry Birds and how Pinky's and Grandma Gentry's grandfather used to beat them senseless when they acted up as children were periodically interrupted by a low guttural moan that would cut through laughter and good feelings to bring everyone in the room back down to Earth.
Everyone would glance over to the middle of the room and lay eyes on the bed Hospice had set up with vibrant red sheets and a hideous bright yellow blanket and see a skeleton of a man lying there near-motionless and his mouth agape in what could only be pain. There lied John Gentry, a great man. He was adorned in a hospital gown and his bald head sat awkwardly on his pillow. If it weren't for the b