2047
by Michael C.
Keith
Harold Carpenter sat
nervously in the waiting room for his appointment
with the oncologist. He had been administered a
series of tests for his inexplicable weight loss
and the dark area spotted in his chest. It’s
probably pancreatic cancer, he thought,
growing impatient for his meeting with the doctor.
Jesus, I hope not . . . anything but that. It’s
such a miserable thing to go through.
“Mr. Carpenter, the
doctor will see you now,” said the
receptionist.
Oh, God, here we go.
Brace yourself, ol’ buddy. Gird your loins.
This could be the worst news ever, he brooded,
as he entered the specialist’s office.
“Mr. Carpenter, please
have a seat. We do have the results of your tests
and we’re ready to deal with it.”
“So, it’s what I
thought . . . pancreatic cancer?” said
Harold, exhaling deeply.
“I’m afraid so.”
“So that means . . .?”
“Yes, you’ll have
to take two of these pills a day for the next
week and you’ll be cured.”
“But I hear they leave
such a bitter taste in your mouth, Doc!”
whined Harold.
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