Stage Four.

That wasn’t a good number. Both his parents had died of cancer.

Aggressive non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. NHL for short.

Short, as what his life would be now.

Diffuse large B-cell lymphoma.

He imagined thousands of big, black horrible cells gobbling up his body, eating their way through his organs and brain. Fucking monsters in his blood.

The doctor smiled and leaned back in his chair when he was done. Man, he wanted to punch him. You don’t give that kind of news and smile.

“You’re in luck Mr. West.”

“Sounds like I’m outta luck, doc.” He emphasized ‘doc,’ so the smug asshole didn’t think he’d scared him.

“Lucky for you, I’ve been given authority to enrol you in a trial for a new treatment. There’s no guarantee of success but initial early results are looking good.”

Alan guffawed. “I’m not a guinea pig.”

“No need to worry. This is not an experiment. They’ve already been in trial for eighteen months. It’s worth a shot. I can request permission from the prison warden for your inclusion. He can’t refuse treatment for serious medical needs because that now constitutes ‘cruel and unusual punishment’ under the Eighth Amendment. You can thank a few court cases and the recent media. They may have just saved your life.”

Alan felt himself breathe again. He hoped to keep breathing for years to come. Even if it meant rotting away in here; he’d take rotting above ground any day.

“So you’re saying I might get better? Get rid of these big B cancer cell things?”

The doctor leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers together.

“I’m saying there’s a reasonable chance. This will not be easy. We’ll be giving you mega-doses of a new form of chemotherapy drug and you’ll require a stem-cell transplant. You’ll be very sick and probably wish you had died. But you might just survive. If you do nothing, certainly you’ll be dead within three months.

Hearing those words dead in three months, had Alan nodding his head as he said, “Where do I sign up doc? Feed me the drugs. Kill the cells and save me.”

* * *

Two guards, who seemed oblivious to Alan’s plight, led him back to his cell. He could tell by the way they unceremoniously kept shoving him along that they didn’t care he was a sick man. He thought of the meeting with the little witch girl and the way she’d looked when she’d hexed him.

In the end, I'm sure you’ll be very sorry.

He wasn’t sorry, and he wished he could see her face when she realized her little game wouldn’t play out. Medical science will triumph against any mumbo-jumbo she sent his way. The doctor had said it: he was lucky. He’d get this treatment, kill this NHL crap and get out of here one day to return to normal life.

And her mother would still be dead and he would be alive.

“Take that bitch,” he said under his breath as he shuffled along. “I’m not that easy to kill.”