He is dying, but of nothing preventable. He's just reached the end of his allotted time. His brother is here, though too busy attending to Jenks to even allow the possibility of noticing me. The skin on his face is slack and pale, except where a nurse has taped a nasal tube to his cheek; under the strip of adhesive the skin is pulled taut and a stretched yellow age blotch gives the impression of colour.
It is too gradual for anyone else to notice, but I am observing the slow clouding of his eyes, a gentle tide of white overpowering the last of the colour in his irises. I can also detect the minute increase in the gaps between his heartbeat, the ever more tortuous struggle of his blood around his body. I can feel him giving up.
It would be fitting to say Jenks was looking at me at the last, but he wasn't. Unaware that I'd held his hand since the day he was born, he let go, and the warmth of his fingers upon my palm was quickly usurped by the cold and a voice calling me away.