Roger Ebert can’t remember the last thing he ate. He can’t
remember the last thing he drank, either, or the last thing he
said. Of course, those things existed; those lasts happened. They
just didn’t happen with enough warning for him to have bothered
committing them to memory — it wasn’t as though he sat down,
knowingly, to his last supper or last cup of coffee or to whisper
a last word into Chaz’s ear. The doctors told him they were going
to give him back his ability to eat, drink, and talk. But the
doctors were wrong, weren’t they? On some morning or afternoon or
evening, sometime in 2006, Ebert took his last bite and sip, and
he spoke his last word.
Ebert’s lasts almost certainly took place in a hospital. That much
he can guess.