Vincent blinked, unsure if he’d heard right. The words felt heavy, alien. The doctor continued, explaining that the tissue in part of his pancreas had begun to die—caused by years of heavy alcohol use. It wasn’t something that would go away on its own.
“You’ll need surgery,” the doctor said, his voice steady but not unkind. “The necrotic tissue has to be removed. Do you have a family? It’d be a good time to let them know.” Vincent stared at the floor. Forty-nine, and this was his future—clinging to life through prescriptions and precision.