Elsa considered the need to search for a wig, maybe become a blonde, but decided, no, to stick to her natural color, although at this point, it was difficult to tell what color that was. She walked past the beauty supply store, zipped up her jacket and glanced at the address on her cellphone. Months ago, a nurse had told her about the place. After a year of hospitals and chemo treatments, she felt ready; not prepared, but ready. Elsa pushed the wrought iron gate. It didn’t budge. She rattled it and tried again. Even opening a jar of applesauce had become a struggle. She noticed a red button, and pressing it, released a latch. Beyond the gate was a door papered with tattered flyers for trash removal, for a lost dog, a newer one for a protest march. Elsa remembered when she could easily walk for miles in the hills, on the beach. When she still could go on marches demanding peace and justice. Now she stood before an obscure building on the edge of the city’s redevelopment district. City planners had given tax breaks to investors for turning Victorian homes into restaurants serving non-alcoholic drinks with floating slices of lemons and limes. She stood before the one building still untouched in the entire area, a hold-out. Where was she? She opened the door to the Death Café.