My hooves clip-clopped somberly on the light blue linoleum. The corridor seemed to stretch for miles, terminating vaguely in the milky glow that poured in through a window. Phantom reflections quivered below the surface of the floor, mocking visitors and orderlies, while nasal hospital voices murmured unintelligibly. Maybe I was dreaming.

The nurse who led me looked back inquisitively and I picked up my pace. Presently she stopped and motioned towards a heavy door. “He’s waiting for you. There’s not much time.” I nodded and she departed, but I didn’t move just yet. Involuntarily, my mind drifted backwards through the years. I thought of when we raced together in go-karts, of our visit with the Hopi Indians, of the time we traveled to the moon.

He was just a little green slab of clay, but I didn’t want to see what Gumby would do today. Not like this. With my muzzle I turned the door handle and pushed my way into the room. From his bed, Gumby looked at me and smiled faintly. “Hey, Pokey,” he managed. He appeared so utterly helpless lying there, head bandaged. I cringed. Needles gouged his body everywhere, tubes snaking their way into ominous machines that beeped and hummed and respired. “Hey there, Gumby,” I finally choked out.

“Come closer,” he said and I shuffled over to his bedside. “It’s going to be alright.” I felt a lump in my throat. This was just like him: despite death’s swift approach, his first thoughts were for my well-being. I felt ashamed. Where was my wry sarcasm now? The tears began to pour from my eyes. After all, if you’ve got a heart then Gumby’s a part of you. With effort, he softly patted my lowered head. “It’s okay.”

“Oh, Gumby!” I blurted out. “How can this be happening? Not to you! You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“That means a lot to me, Pokey. You’re my best friend, too.” I looked up and saw that he wept also.

It was so wrong. The very slope of his head that made him such a recognizable icon was formed by the brain tumor that would soon take his life. The irony was sickening: it was the horrible, humorless joke that the rest of us—me, Prickle, and Goo—were hating ourselves for having even contemplated. None of us had mentioned it, but we all thought it.

A look of urgency entered his eyes and he tried to lean towards me, clutching my muzzle. I moved closer; he had something important to say. Our eyes were locked as he struggled to get the words out. It came with a desperate gasp:

“Stay orange, pony boy.”