The Trouble Is?
CW: terminal sickness.

Paul was on day 458 of his countdown. He weighed fifty-eight kg, down from a lean ninety-three kilograms. He was likewise 58 years old and counting. His doctor predicted it, and Paul felt old, ill, and wasted, his body no longer his own, and tomorrow would be 1999, another brand new year with nothing to look forward to.

He’d asked Matt what Silence equals Death meant for years. He’d be the first to acknowledge he was a simpleton, the one whose IQ corresponded to his shoe size – a recurring gag at the warehouse. Matt grinned broadly and explained that it meant that if you didn’t speak up, more people would perish. But it was in the past. Now it was just an issue with no solution; Paul was dying alone.
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