Michael was leaning back against the pillows, his eyes closed. Even in a hospital gown, with medicine dripping into his veins, he carried an aura of noble arrogance.
"Michael?" she whispered, her anger at his earlier 'nap' trick completely forgotten in the face of his uncharacteristic fragility.
The man on the bed opened one eye, a faint, victorious smirk touching his lips. "You came."
"What's wrong with you, Michael?" Evelyn's voice was jagged with anxiety. She reached for him, her eyes searching his pale face for a sign of what had brought the "Iron Man" to his knees.
Michael didn't open his eyes. He leaned back into the pillows, his voice a faint, gravelly whisper. "I'm dying."
The words hit Evelyn like a physical blow. Her vision blurred, and her eyes reddened instantly. She practically fell over him, her hands trembling. "What are you saying? Michael, tell me the truth! What is wrong with you?" she roared, the fear of losing him suddenly overriding years of resentment.
