Gemotions

He glared at the crisp white papers, the words blurring before his eyes. "You're… you're telling me I don't have this disease?" Michael’s voice cracked. His own history was now a mystery. The doctor, a man whose kindness usually soothed him, stammered a reply. “There seems to be a mix-up, Mr. Harding. You’ve been given someone else’s test results.”

Michael leaned back, the leather of the chair squeaking under the weight of his sudden hollowness. He’d spent the last year fearing the inevitable decline, the slow disintegration he’d prepared himself for. The possibility that the other patient had the condition filled him with a bitter ache.

He stared at the photograph of the woman in the file, her smiling face radiating health. A wave of nausea rolled through him. He found himself wishing he could trade places.