THE DIAGNOSIS

There was nothing to do, and so he did nothing at all. Tic-tic-tic went the clock. Thump-thump-thump went his heart, for he was very nervous. The room was large, sparse and white. It was a hospital room.

The doctor was in the back room, tapping his foot. Tap-tap-tap. He was not nervous; he was scared. The test results displayed in front of him were frightening, and he regretted feeling sorry for the gray-haired man waiting outside. The doctor had committed his life to helping those who could not help themselves, and after graduating from medical school he had moved overseas. That was three years ago, though it seemed to him like a lifetime.

The doctor stopped tapping and entered the white room. The man looked up, and his heart beat faster. He remained seated, and he was more nervous than ever before. Thump-thump-thump-thump. The doctor's face was expressionless.

"Good news," said the doctor. He made sure to keep his distance. "You're going to be fine." He hated himself for his lie, but at the same time he was relieved he had told it.

The man was also relieved, and let out a sigh. He thanked the doctor, and they talked for another few minutes. Every answer was good, and brought new hope to his fragile psyche. He was not old, merely pre-maturely gray. He still had things to live for.

The man left the hospital room with a spring in his step and a bottle of pills. The doctor slumped into a nearby chair. He thought of the results, and shuddered. Ignorance, he mused, was bliss. He had never smoked, but he wished he had a cigarette. Or maybe chocolate. A lot of chocolate. Tic-tic-tic.

He stared at the clock on the wall. Tic-tic. Time was running out. Every moment the gray-haired man was alive, more people would die.

Thump-thump-thump.
He had to leave town, before the quarantine.