Knock, knock. I rap twice on the white plastic door.  "Come in."  Urged on by the low voice of my primary care physician from inside, I slowly open the door and enter the examination room. The room is filled with the cold smell of disinfectant. As directed, I sit down on the lone round stool.  "Doctor, how was it...? The results from the other day."  I try to keep my tone as bright as possible, peering into the doctor's face inquisitively. As if to convince myself it's just a minor illness.  But the doctor's expression, staring at the computer screen, is terribly stiff. The doctor slowly turns to face me and lets out a small sigh.  "...This is very difficult to say."  Just that preamble makes my heart thump with an ominous sound. I feel my fingertips suddenly go cold.  "The lesions in your brain are progressing more than we imagined. To be blunt, your remaining time is..."

...Huh?

The meaning of the number doesn't sink into my head immediately.  (One year? 365 days? No way, I'm still alive, I can still move normally...)  The back of my head burns hot, and the next moment, a sensation like being plunged into freezing water assaults my entire body. My vision warps, and the doctor's face starts to blur away.