The Ledger of Borrowed Days
The diagnosis came on a Tuesday, which felt like something the universe was joking about. Tuesdays were for trash collection and mediocre coffee at the bodega on Atlantic. They were not for terminal things. "Pancreatic," said the physician, a man with kind eyes and the practiced cadence of someone who delivered bad news for a living. "Stage four. I'm sorry, Mr. Cohen. We're looking at three...
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