Sitting in the usual place, in his usual room, feeling the unsatisfaction that usually bloats his mind by this point in the day.
3 o'clock, niether near the beginning of the day, nor near the end.
This time three months ago, David Freeman was informed that he had 5 months to live. What is a person supposed to do with this sort of information. He glances over at the bin where a crumpled up leaflet is left for dead, with the words 'so your terminally ill' are written impersonally across the front. 'What next?' follows. David thought this was a pretty obvious question.
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