CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sergio Ramon-Diaz doubled over, nearly overcome with a fit of coughing. It was two in the morning, but the hour of the day or night meant little to him now. When one had such little time left to live, one didn’t care about such things. Only the number of hours left mattered.
And his life could very well be counted in hours. He used to count it in months, like the doctors did, or even years.
There had been a time, not so long ago when he was still in his sixties, that he didn’t count at all.
But cancer was eating his insides, spreading so quickly that no modern medicine could stop it.
They had spoken of chemotherapy and bone marrow transplants and the removal of a couple of organs. When he had asked how much more time all these procedures would give him, they merely sh
