We all heard him whistling from the bathroom. A mindless melody so pleasant it reminded me of the orchestra of birds that sing and chirp each morning outside my bedroom. But it wasn’t morning, rather it was dusk. Mother had just walked in bearing a bottle of red wine, Aliya was sitting on the full sized bed we had moved to the living room weeks prior. It now served as the couch. His new bed was one of those rented hospital versions. It served his needs better now. Aliya sat cross-legged, her head down, knitting yet another hat for him. He was always cold. I stood in the small kitchen waiting for the grapeseed oil I had just poured into the cast iron skillet to shimmer indicating it was hot enough.