"Blinding headache," the fellow said, an over jovial personality to which Shepherd had learned to adapt. A joke here and there and he’d created an insincere bond with him.

"Migraine. Barely managed to get through … door."

"So I see."

Ken walked over to his bed, casually, despite his heart galloping. He touched his forehead in a gesture of concern, as he picked up the photos and slipped them into his pocket with the other hand.

"You're in my bed but don't worry, you stay there. Need anything?"

"No, I've tak-en my medicashoon. Kickin' 'n. Gotta shleep."

Ken left the room, a lump lodged in his chest. As he closed the door behind, he released a gasp.

You need to be far more careful, he warned himself.

As he walked up the hall, he shook his head and whispered under his breath, "You were lucky this time. So lucky."

Good timing saved him too. The police raided a group he'd planned to join on the very morning of the day he was to meet with them. So close and so stupid of him to even consider meeting anyone in person. If he’d been caught that would have been a fitting punishing for his carelessness.

Over the following weeks, his stomach somersaulted every time he heard an unexpected knock at his apartment door. He wasn't certain if anyone he'd contacted in the group had kept his number and name. He’d been careful not to use his real name, but he’d heard the police had become good at finding people like him. An article in the newspaper revealed the FBI had become involved in the hunt for his mutual hobbyists. No, he shouldn’t think like that because he knew it was somehow wrong, but he couldn’t get his brain to switch off. He told himself if he was caught, then that might be a good thing because he would never stop on his own.

They never came, and he survived the scare although that’s when his hair started graying. These early close shaves made him extra cautious though and since then he had never had another scare. Of course, complete safety would only be certain if he stopped. He had tried so hard too, even practicing psychology in the hope of discovering an answer to curbing the obsession.

Death wasn’t upon him yet, but his life still flashed before his eyes. The embarrassing, disgusting collection of images he saw shamed him. He recognized his luck had expired. Not just expired, but nuked. Completely.

Prostate cancer delivered to him in ironic black humor. Fourth stage. Aggressive. Incurable. Metastasized into his back and leg bones.

How he hadn't noticed the changes in his body surprised him.

His options, explained to him in gentle, supportive words that he didn’t deserve, was chemotherapy, radiation and hormone treatment. Most likely none could save him, but they might extend his pitiful life. He took it well, nodding, agreeing to stay positive, and thanked the specialist.

After the initial shock, he decided to do nothing. This ending fitted his crime. Cancer was truly the cure for which he’d prayed, and he accepted this fate.