“James,” he said when his attorney answered, “I need you to come by tomorrow. It’s time to put things in order. He listened for a moment, then added, “Yes, all of it. And I need you to schedule that appointment at Memorial Hospital, the one we discussed.” Later that evening, Elias sat in his study, a single lamp casting yellow light across his desk.
In front of him lay a crisp white envelope from Memorial Hospital, the paper still creased from where he’d carried it in his pocket for weeks, afraid to open it. Now he smoothed it flat with trembling fingers and read the words again. Stage four, terminal, 6 months, maybe less. The diagnosis wasn’t a surprise.
He’d known something was wrong for months, but seeing it in stark medical terms made it real. Final. His hands didn’t shake anymore as he placed the reportback in its envelope. The fear that had kept him from making this decision was gone, replaced by a calm certainty. Time, which had seemed like his enemy for so many years as he searched, had suddenly become precious, limited.
