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Glucose dripped into his arm from a glass jar suspended from a metal pole. His thick black hair had been shaved back where the doctors had examined him. His eyes were taped shut. Off to the side, machines measured his blood pressure, his body temperature, and his heartbeat, each of them clicking and blipping, blending with the raspy, rhythmic sound of the respirator in a macabre symphony of impending doom. Throughout the first night and the next day, the Hillmans, the Rosses, and Becca sat outside Jonathan’s room, maintaining a bedside vigil, each of them lost in his own thoughts, his own memories, his own prayers. By the afternoon of the second day, friends began to come, offering sympathy, assistance, anything they could to make it easier on the family. As a group, they gathered in the hall outside intensive care or sat in the main lounge or in the basement cafeteria, all of them horrified at the sight of a young man battling death, and hiding the same secret sentiment, There but for the grace of God, go I.Max was inconsolable. At one point, Becca strolled down the hall with him, leading him to one of the smaller lounges, where they could be alone.