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They’re hard to kill, but oh, they do age.  Slow, but they do.

Yarrow hasn’t had his own teeth in decades.  He finds ways, though: his old-fashioned razor, his tongue, and the subtle Band-Aid.  His eyes and voice still work their old glamor, and if the nurses and aides seem a bit pale and sickly, well, you know how things go around.

It’s a flexible facility, and if he wants to take his meals in his room and draw the blinds, well, it’s his money.  Mr. Yarrow’s been here a long time.  He deserves respect.

And on Saturday nights, there’s Bingo.