My job is easier if I fancy myself the curator for a museum of broken cameras, publicly funded and modestly sized, rather than the director of this specialized retirement home. I manage a highly trained staff with degrees from the best universities. We usually acquire our stricken residents from their remorseful middle-aged children or dejected spouses. I examine each one personally, shine a light in the eyes, monitor the apertures and the ability to focus. Most important (as per standards developed by the Johns Hopkins Medical School), I conduct a functional MRI scan to confirm that, although the eyes blink, no new images are actually being recorded. We feed them, diaper them, and make them comfortable. Decorum demands that we turn on their televisions or pipe in music by Celine Dion. For the first few months, they receive visitors — relatives and friends who hold their hands and speak to them in hushed tones. But interest inevitably wanes. After thirty days go by without a single visit (it once was ninety, but regulations have changed due to economic blight and shifting health care priorities,) we mail out official notices that the exhibit will be discontinued unless interest resumes. After another thirty days without a visit, we administer the pentobarbital and ship any personal effects to loved ones (provided that the forms have been filled out correctly; if not, the belongings go to the state). Everyone is sad. Then we clean and disinfect the room, preparing it for the next installation.