Invoice

Upon receiving the invoice for the repair, Spencer nearly lost his appetite. It arrived on time in a damaged box, a rip running the length of the cardboard. The total cost came out to a quarter of his monthly income. Credit cards already maxed, there was little he could do.

On Fridays, different departments in the office catered meetings. When these finished, messages went out to the rest of the building, so that no scraps of food went to waste. It became a ritual for Spencer to wait for these messages, and to take the free food as a reward for his patience and frugality. When he most needed financial reprieve, no such messages came. The office, in fact, was sparsely populated. Stomach rumbling, he arrived at a last resort.

Outside the office stood a sandwich and salad spot, a common choice for his coworkers. He knew they placed their online and mobile orders on a double-shelf, letters affixed to aid in finding your name. He knew, too, that no employee of the restaurant checked for a receipt. Do anything confidently and you can get away with it.

His watch flagged an elevated heart rate as he exited the restaurant. Tearing open the brown paper bag, a leafy green salad greeted him. The disappointment wasn’t strong enough to mask the emptiness in his stomach.

No. 051

A.A.A. #1

In the afternoon, W. collapsed. An ambulance swiftly carried him to the nearest memorial hospital. First it was low blood pressure, then it was an aortic aneurysm in the stomach. The blood in his body rushed to his stomach, leaving it distended. The ruptured aorta spurted the blood from the cardiovascular system, leaving him gray-skinned and light-headed. After receiving medication for the pain and regaining consciousness, the emergency room doctor gave him his ultimatum. There was nobody else in the room.

“Listen,” he started. “There’s no two ways to say it. You have two options here. I can give you enough morphine to let you pass quietly in the night. Or we can transfer you to a hospital thirty minutes north. They can attempt a risky surgery, but there’s a very high mortality rate. Over 90%. You likely won’t make it. But you have to decide now, there isn’t much time.”

Still lightheaded from the day, and numbed from the medication, W. responded with muscle memory: “There’s only one option. Give me the surgery.”

No. 013