The appointment came a week later. Doctor Moreau had asked Austin to come in, said he needed to discuss some new test results.
The office was the same—sterile, clinical, designed to make people feel small.
"Your markers have accelerated," Moreau said, reviewing his charts. "Significantly. I've been conservative with my estimates, but based on these results, I think we need to recalibrate expectations."
"What does that mean?" Austin asked, though he already knew.
"It means that two years might be optimistic," Moreau said gently. "Given the way your condition is progressing, I'd estimate eighteen months. Possibly less."
Austin felt something shift inside him. Eighteen months. He'd already used six of them. That left twelve. A year of living, and then nothing.
"What can I do?" he asked.
"Rest," Moreau said. "Reduce stress. Avoid intense physical activity. Eat well. Try to find peace with what's coming."
"Peace," Austin repeated. "That's what you recommend?"
"I recommend that you make your time count," Moreau said. "I can't save your life, Austin. But I can help you live the one you have left as fully as possible. That means being smart about it."