It’s the “almost home” part of the journey for this prodigal: I spent what I had to spend, not quite every last bit but near enough to feel the air moving through my bones. Hard to stop myself—sometimes it takes running to the edge of a horizon, to where I can’t tell whether that one thin coin I tossed was a dime or the moon. I can see in my mind’s eye the doorstep: I’m so weak from this fading illness, from the relief of return. I steady myself with a hand on the entryway. The porch light’s on.