“Well, Wes.  I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.”

“Lay it on me, Doc.”

“It’s Huntington’s Disease.”  Doctor Patel let it sink in for a moment before he started to explain.

“I know what it is.  My grandfather had it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  Neither of your parents had it?”

“It was my dad’s old man.  My dad never got checked, and he died before he showed any symptoms.”

“There’s a good chance he had the gene, and passed it along to you.”

Wes closed his eyes.  He remembered how the disease had slowly, agonizingly trapped his grandfather in a body that was increasingly less under his own control.  He’d been young, growing fearful of the once kind man who’d always had a soft spot for him, the hands that had always been quick to hand him candy turning into twitching and gnarled claws, the man who always told such great stories unable to even talk towards the end.  “Isn’t it, like, early?  Shouldn’t I have more time?” he asked, opening his eyes.

“It varies.  Some people don’t start presenting symptoms until their fifties-”

“Doc, I’m thirty one!”

“That’s not unheard of.  Some are even younger.”

“Shit.”

“Now, this isn’t a death sentence.  Most people live another fifteen or more years before-”

“Before I’m trapped in a prison of my own body, unable to care for myself, or even speak?”

Doctor Patel put his hand on Wes’s shoulder.  “The worst thing about this disease is that because it’s hereditary, most people have seen a loved one suffer through the same thing.  And at the end, you’re right, it’s not pretty.  You remember how bad it was in the end.  But you still have a long time before that.”



Wes opened the felt box, staring at the engagement ring inside.  He closed it, and opened it again as he held his cell phone to his ear, listening to it ring.

“It’s Amy, leave me a message and I’ll get back to you,” came the recorded voice, followed by the beep.

“Amy, it’s Wes.  We, we need to talk.”  He hung up the phone and opened the box again, running his thumb over the diamond.  He’d been struggling not to lose her for months.  She wanted kids more than anything, and he kept telling her he wasn’t ready yet.  He’d bought the ring a week ago, and he was just waiting for the right moment to tell her he was ready, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, that he wanted her to be his wife, and wanted to start a family with her.

Not anymore.

The problems, the twinges, he called them, the last two fingers on his left hand spasming and locking up, had gotten too frequent to ignore.  He’d put off going to the doctor for as long as possible.  If he didn’t know for sure, he could still hope it might be something minor, like carpal tunnel.  But now he knew, and it was over.  Everything was over.

His doctor had told him it wasn’t a death sentence, that he had fifteen plus years left, but Wes could read between the lines as he advised him to try and enjoy his life.  Because he was dying.

He wouldn’t get married.  He couldn’t put Amy through that hell of having to take care of him while his body failed him little by little.  He definitely couldn’t give her kids, and risk passing on the faulty gene.  He was a carpenter, but he wouldn’t be able to reliably do that for much longer.  And forget playing the piano, those days were numbered too.

Wes snapped the box closed and hurled it across his car.  It bounced harmlessly off the passenger window and fell on the other side of the seat, out of sight.  Wes got out of his car and started walking towards the liquor store.

Something fluttering on the sidewalk caught his eye, and he stopped.  A two-dollar bill lay on the sidewalk.  Wes snorted, almost laughing out loud.  Of course.  His grandfather used to always give him two-dollar bills.  He hadn’t seen one in years, but today, there it was, right in his path.  He shook his head and almost kept walking, but he stopped and knelt to pick it up.  His finger slid across something mushy on the bottom of the bill as he picked it up.

Snickering came from the alley, and as he turned, he saw two teens pointing and laughing.  “Poop dollah!” one of them shouted, holding his sides as he burst out laughing.

Wes lifted the bill, seeing, and then quickly smelling that the bottom of the bill had been covered in dog shit.  He motioned like he was going to chase after the kids, and that was all it took for them to scamper off, cackling madly.  

Wes took a couple steps after them, but he had no intention of actually giving chase, and they were long gone, their prank successfully pulled off on the unsuspecting Wes, who thought for one second that maybe there was a spot off luck on what was otherwise the worst day of his life.

He didn’t know why he kept it, but he scraped the shit covered bill and his fingers off on the edge of the building as best as he could before tucking the soiled two dollar bill into his back pocket, and he walked into the liquor store.

Back in college, he’d done his fair share of partying, and he was still partial to knocking back a few beers now and then, but now he was ready to do some serious drinking.  He eyed the pints behind the counter as he waited on the clerk.  Vodka would do; something cheap that tasted like rubbing alcohol would be perfect.

“Am I in the wrong line?” Wes finally asked.  The clerk stood at the other end of the counter where another line extended halfway down the aisle.  

“You want a lottery ticket?” the clerk asked him, not looking up from the stack of twenties he’d just been handed, and he started printing lottery tickets.

“No, I just want to get drunk.”

“Then you’re in the right line.  Gimme a sec.”

Wes drummed his fingers on the counter until the clerk finished up and came over.  “What can I get you?”

He pointed.  “That one there.  The blue one.”

“The hundred proof?”  The clerk reached for a half pint.  

“Yeah.  No, the bigger one, next to it.”

“You got it, hoss.”  He started ringing him up.

“What’s with the line?”

“No one’s won the Powerball yet.  Jackpot’s over two billion.  Everyone and their brother is buying tickets.”

Wes swiped his credit card.  “How much is a ticket?”

“Two bucks, but it’s gotta be cash.”

Wesley couldn’t help but laugh.  He fished the two-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to the clerk.  “I’ll take one.”

The clerk sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling up.  “Is this shit?  I can’t take this.”

Wes planted both hands on the counter and leaned across it, staring down the clerk.  “Listen.  I just found out I’m slowly dying of an incurable disease, and tonight I’m going to have to break up with the girl I was planning on marrying cause I can’t give her kids.  And I picked up that shit stained two-dollar bill on my way in here while two little punks had a good laugh.  Just give me a damn lottery ticket.  Who knows, my luck might just turn around, and I’ll die rich.”