As I WALK INTO THE subway tunnel and through the turnstiles, I keep wondering if I should turn back. Should I knock on her door? Should I call 911? Should I stop her? I can walk right back up the subway steps. I can put one foot in front of the other and make my way back to Evelyn’s and say “Don’t do this.” I am capable of that. I just have to decide if I want to do it. If I should do it. If it’s the right thing to do. She didn’t pick me just because she felt she owed me. She picked me because of my right-to-die piece. She picked me because I showed a unique understanding of the need for dignity in death. She picked me because she believes I can see the need for mercy, even when what constitutes mercy is hard to swallow. She picked me because she trusts me. And I get the feeling she trusts me now. My train comes thundering into the station. I need to get on it and meet my mother at the airport. The doors open. The crowds flow out. The crowds flow in. A teenage boy with a backpack shoulders me out of the way. I do not set foot in the subway car. The train dings. The doors close. The station empties. And I stand there. Frozen. If you think someone is going to take her own life, don’t you try to stop her? Don’t you call the cops? Don’t you break down walls to find her? The station starts to fill again, slowly. A mother with her toddler. A man with groceries. Three hipsters in flannel with beards. The crowd starts gathering faster than I can clock them now.