“WHAT’S THE VERDICT DOC, is this the end of the line?”
Dr. Cicely stood at the door to the patient’s room, taking a moment to gather her thoughts while she looked at him. He was taking the situation better than some patients she’d treated, though she knew how quickly the emotional pendulum swung from jaunty fatalism to denial, anger, acceptance, and a thousand other emotions. She smiled a practiced smile, darned her eyes, and stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her to keep out the other hospital sounds.
“No one can say for sure when the line ends for any of us,” she said. Not the first time she’d said those specific words, and about the thousandth time she’d said some iteration of them. “I’ve seen stranger things. There’s always a chance.”
“Always a chance,” Teddy said with a dark little laugh. “You know, there was always a chance I’d hit the Powerball too, back when I played with my grandma.”
“There’s still time. It’s at what, nine figures? I think I heard it on the radio this morning.”
“I couldn’t spend the money if I had two more of my lifetimes. Abridged or otherwise.”
Teddy Bover’s eyes twinkled dark blue, but they shone wet like stars reflected in a still pool of water. He was on a precipice, Dr. Cicely thought. She imagined him tipping at the edge, already slipping down a steep slope but looking up, obstinately, at the sky. There was darkness behind him, and he knew it. He was refusing
…
Parker McIntosh lives and works in Southern Oregon. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Garfield Lake Review, A Narrow Fellow, The Flexible Persona, and other publications.