The little machine, a cuff that squeezes like a boa constrictor. Three times a day, without fail. Morning, noon, night. A ritual. A sacrament. It started after Agnes across the street, younger than me by a good ten years, just keeled over. Right there by her petunias. Stroke. Gone. Her husband, bless his heart, found her with a trowel still clutched in her hand. A warning, I tell myself. A cautionary tale etched in the asphalt. My numbers. They flicker. 130/80. Then 135/82. Oh, the horror. A climb. A precipitous ascent into the abyss. I see it, clear as day. The tiny vessels in my brain, like delicate glass threads, ready to snap. A sudden gust, and POP. Then what? The drool, the slurred words, the half-smile that droops like a sad wilting flower. I see the nurses, their kind but weary eyes. The plastic cup of water, too far to reach. The indignity. I tell myself, no. Not me. Not yet. It’s the quiet that gets you, isn’t it? The hum of the refrigerator, the distant sirens. Everything amplified. Each twitch in my left eyelid, a premonition. A warning bell. My mother used to say, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, dear.” And she was right. Always right. Worked her fingers to the bone, M. She never had time for blood pressure cuffs. Just kept moving. Until she couldn't. Then it was too late. Always too late. The doctor, a young man, probably just out of medical school, he says, "Mrs. Henderson, your blood pressure is perfectly normal for your age." He smiles, a bright, untroubled smile. As if 135/82 isn't a ticking time bomb. As if he hasn't seen the charts, the graphs, the slow, insidious creep of the numbers. He doesn't understand. He hasn’t lived through the paychecks that barely stretched, the fear of the furnace breaking in winter. The absolute TERROR of not being able to pay the electric. This is another bill. Another thing to manage. I’m up now. It’s 2 AM. The numbers are etched in my mind, a relentless drumbeat. I could check it again. Just once. To see. To reassure. Or to confirm. To confirm the inevitable. The slight tremor in my hand as I reach for the machine. The little whirring sound. The squeeze. The anticipation. The knowing. This is what it means, I think, to be old. To watch the clock, to count the beats, to measure the slow, steady unraveling. The machine hisses. Displays its verdict. Another day. Or perhaps, another step closer.