The diagnosis came without drama, and that was the worst of it.
I had been coughing for days and ignoring it. Then a fever came, and I took my temperature and stared at the number, and I knew what it meant. I called a clinic anyway. The doctor examined me and said very little. He ordered tests, and I waited, and the result came the next afternoon. Positive.
He sat across from me with the file closed. "You know what this means."
I nodded.
"Given the timing—" He stopped, and I finished it for him. "I was exposed in the laboratory."
"I'm sorry."
"How long?"
"We can't know exactly."
"Estimate."
"I wouldn't trust one."
"Please."
He looked down at his hands. "You were exposed to a small amount, which is probably why it has moved so slowly in you. But it is advanced now. Your condition suggests it may already be advanced."
"Days?"
"I don't know."
"Weeks?"
"I don't know." He folded his hands. "You need rest."
I laughed. He did not.
"Rest won't fix it."
"No."
"Then why say it?"
"Because you're still here."
I looked at him. He was young. Too young. I thought of my mother telling frightened patients that doctors were there to make fear smaller, and I wanted to tell him he was doing it badly, and that it was the best thing anyone had said to me in weeks. "Thank you," I said instead.
Outside, the street was almost empty. I stood beside the car for a while. Then I went home.