The cancer was spreading swiftly, too fast to stop even with ever-increasing doses of chemotherapy.  He was not far from the point in which the drug would be doing him more harm than good.

Very few knew he was this sick.  Only a handful.  Which is how it had to be.  He was still a public figure and didn’t want to suddenly become susceptible to a never-ending stream of tabloids and overblown stories about his health—about his demise and eventually his wealth.  How much did he have?  And who would get it?  Questions that were so very futile and meaningless.

In the end, money was what everyone worried about, like vultures fighting over a carcass.  Who would get the meat, and who would not?

Everything eventually came back to money.

For Saad, it was more than that.  Something much more important.  The world itself.  And the meaning of it all.

Why we were here, and for how long?  And what one person could do in a single life span.

And of course, how long Saad’s life would turn out to be?

No one knew, not even his doctor and nurse.  But he didn’t have long.

It was all coming down to this—the last weeks and months of a long and astonishing life.

Counting down the last desperate days like the clock of fate.  Slowly decrementing in secrecy, robbing him of knowing just how long was left.

Just like the clocks of countless others who had long since reached that final tock.

Was it desperation he was feeling?  Or despair?  He could no longer be sure.

Because he was so close.

So astonishingly close.

The door opened behind him, and Saad listened as someone entered the room.  He was unable to detect the person’s scent as they moved close, thanks to the chemotherapy.

Instead, he was left to wait until the person closed the door and appeared from the side, continuing forward to one of the leather chairs and lowering himself down to wait.

The man’s name was Khoury, Saad’s Chief of Security.  With short black hair, he sat patiently in the chair watching both Saad and his nurse.  She continued with her work, pressing buttons on the device to turn it off before reaching down and disconnecting the tube, then winding it carefully, she hung the tubing on a small hoop and returned to close off his chest port.

Khoury continued observing in silence, wordless, as the nurse gathered her things and gingerly buttoned Saad’s shirt back up.  Moments later, she wheeled the chrome pole and its instrumentation, along with her bag, to the door and exited.

Khoury remained quiet, waiting for Saad to speak first.

“What is it?” Saad finally said, returning to the present.

“We are ready for the next arrival,” announced Khoury.

“Good.  And the next?”

“And the next.” He nodded.

Followed by another, and another, and another—even though they could only use one child per night.