“How long will I live?”
The doctor’s office is painted sickly green, and the fluorescents above make it only look sicker. The doctor himself has a tie with cartoons on it, lurid yellow and bright red, that draws Theo’s eyes even after he’s asked the question that has weighed on his mind for so long.
“Well.” The doctor looks up into his brain for the answer, finding only the ammunition for a dozen or so questions. “Do you smoke? Do you drink? Are you sexually active? Do you exercise? How many hours a week? Do you sleep well? Do you like yourself? Do you drive a nice car? Who are you dating? Do they have dyed hair? How much red meat do you eat every week?”
“Um,” Theo says.

“How long will I live?”
The gypsy’s den is foggy and mahogany, smelling like potpourri and verbena. The gypsy herself is layered under a thousand woven shawls and a heavy head of thick black curls, and she studies Theo with a child’s interest in a strange insect.
“Well.” The answer requires her hands to grope, as a blind woman, the face of a crystal ball and then gaze, as an all-seeing woman, into what it has revealed to her. “I see many lights, and I see the depths of a river; I see the brightest flame of a candle and I see all of a cave; I see the moon and the sun as they touch the face of the sky.”
“Um,” Theo says.

“How long will I live?”
The computer’s screen is inconsequential under Theo’s office lights, the orange comfort of which warm his tired face and give life to the weariness of his bones. The search results are innumerable, and the gypsy’s moon rises as the doctor’s sleep recommendation goes unnoticed.
“Well.” The computer lights flash in Theo’s quick-skimming eyes. “Try this one quick trick– live to be 104– pick a tarot card– close your eyes and count to ten– top five most likely ways to die– top three least likely ways to die– seven diseases with no cure.”
“Um,” Theo says.

“How long will I live?”
The driver’s headlights are bright in the darkness of the contemplative night, and he splits apart the philosophy of the stars with reckless driving. He hears the question on the radio, spoken by an unfamiliar voice that goes into one inebriated ear and out the other.
“Well.” The radio host’s voice is uncertain. “Doesn’t matter,” the driver slurs, eyes drooping shut. “Not at all, not at all, not at all,” and his voice melds with the rumble of his engine as he plows down a man with a phone next to his ear and keeps on driving.
“Um,” Theo says as he dies.

– Haven Morris