The silence in his room was absolute. Martin dropped Jennifer’s biology textbook onto his bed, where it landed with a soft thud. He sat beside it, staring at the familiar cover without seeing it. His phone was a cold, black rectangle in his hand. His thumb hovered over her name in his contacts.

  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.

  Why did you throw your book?

  What’s really going on with me?

  The unsent messages swirled in his head. But the anger—at the situation, at the pity, at his own helplessness—was a stronger force. He tossed the phone onto the comforter and let himself fall back, arms splayed wide like a starfish. He stared at the ceiling, the events of the day replaying on the blank plaster until his eyes grew heavy, and the exhaustion he’d been fighting pulled him under.

  He didn’t dream. He just… ceased.

  A sharp, insistent knocking jarred him awake. The room was dark. Disoriented, he mumbled, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me.” Sadie’s voice, small through the door. “Loria said to come down. Dinner. And your… drugs.”

  Martin sat up, rubbing the grit from his eyes. The word ‘drugs’ sent a fresh jolt through him. “What did I tell you about calling her ‘Loria’?” he called out, his voice sleep-roughened.

  A pause from the other side. He could almost hear her recalibrating. “Loria said… I mean, Aunt Loria said to come down.”

  Martin sighed, swinging his legs off the bed. “She’s not your aunt either, Sadie. Just go tell Ma I’m coming.”

  “Okay.” Her footsteps pattered away.

  He checked his phone. Past 7 PM. He’d slept for hours. The shower was a mechanical routine, the water failing to warm the chill that had settled in his bones. Downstairs, the living room glowed with the flickering light of the television. Loria and Sadie sat in separate chairs, a careful distance between them, watching a sitcom laugh track that no one was laughing at.

  “Dad’s not back?” Martin asked, heading toward the kitchen where a plate was kept warm for him.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Running late,” Loria said, not taking her eyes from the screen.

  Dinner was tasteless. Afterward came the ritual he was beginning to dread. Loria brought him the small plastic cup with three chalky tablets and a tiny bottle of bitter, cherry-red liquid. He swallowed them all under her watchful eye, the aftertaste clinging to his tongue.

  “All done,” she said, her smile tight. She took the empty cup and bottle, rinsed them, and then stood on her tiptoes to return the medication bottles to the very top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, behind the cereal boxes. A place meant to be out of reach, out of mind.

  She bustled about, finally pausing by the living room archway. “I’m heading up. Do you want the light on?”

  “No,” Martin said, his eyes on the TV. “Turn it off.”

  “Don’t stay up too late.” The switch clicked, plunging the room into darkness save for the erratic blue glow of the television. Her footsteps faded up the stairs.

  Alone. In the dark. The sitcom played on, its canned joy a hollow soundtrack. Martin wasn’t watching. He was staring at his own faint reflection in the black screen, a ghost-boy superimposed over the bright, fake world.

  His gaze drifted from his reflection to the dark shape of the kitchen doorway. To the high cupboard.

  A quiet, desperate resolve clicked into place.

  He moved silently. In the kitchen, he dragged a small step-stool from the corner, the legs scraping softly on the tile. He climbed, his fingers finding the smooth plastic of the medication bottles. He grabbed all four.

  Back in the living room, he turned on a single lamp, creating a small pool of light. He lined up the bottles on the coffee table. Hemoplex. Ferro-Sol. Vitacard. Names that sounded like general health aids. And the fourth: Sirofenac.

  He examined each label, searching for an indication, a named condition. Nothing. Just dosage instructions and chemical names. He opened his phone, his fingers cold and clumsy. He typed in the names together: Hemoplex Ferro-Sol Vitacard Sirofenac combination.

  The search results loaded. His eyes scanned medical forums, pharmacy Q&As. The first three were common, used for anemia, for boosting red blood cell count, for general cardiovascular support. Common.

  But the threads always changed when Sirofenac was added to the mix. “…often co-prescribed in Woodblock for symptomatic management…” one post read. Another, more blunt: “My dad was on this exact combo. They said it was for his blood. It was for Blood Wax.”

  The words burned into his vision. Blood Wax.

  A sudden, visceral heat flooded his body, followed immediately by a cold so deep it felt like his heart had stopped. He couldn’t breathe. No. It’s a mistake. He frantically searched Sirofenac alone. No direct link. It was an anti-inflammatory, a painkiller. Maybe it was for the chest pain? Just the pain?

  With trembling hands, he opened a new tab. Blood Wax disease.

  The screen filled with information he’d half-heard on the news for years, background noise to his life. Now, it was a spotlight aimed directly at him.

  Origin: Woodblock, 3 years ago. Unknown cause. Non-contagious.

  Effect: Abnormal thickening of the blood, impairing circulation. Strain on the heart.

  Impact: Woodblock medically isolated. Approx. 2,000 fatalities to date.

  Symptoms: Chronic fatigue, weakness, severe chest pain, coughing…

  Note for Patients: Avoid alcohol. Can intensify effects.

  Each bullet point was a hammer blow. Chest pain. Fatigue. The world narrowed to the bright rectangle in his hands.

  He typed again, each letter an effort. Blood Wax survival rate.

  The answer was stark, brutal. No known survivors. Considered universally fatal.

  One last search. Longest survival with Blood Wax diagnosis.

  The answer appeared, a death sentence with a timer: 8 months.

  The phone slipped from his numb fingers, landing softly on the carpet. The blue light from the screen lit his pale, stunned face from below. He didn’t move. He pulled his knees up to his chest, folding in on himself in the lamplight, the empty medication bottles standing in a silent row before him like accusing sentinels.

  The sitcom laughter swelled from the television, a cruel, discordant chorus. That night, Martin didn’t sleep. He sat frozen in the chair, the terrible, screaming truth now a part of him, echoing in the silent house. He had his answer.

  He had Blood Wax disease.