George Young rested in the armchair in the front room of the house he shared with Sylvia and her daughter, staring at the air conditioner as the stream of cool air it generated caressed his overheated body. He took a sip of cold water from the glass Sylvia had placed on the table next to him. He closed his eyes. On the screen of his mind’s eye appeared the hour glass that he knew represented the span of his life. There weren’t that many grains left in the upper glass waiting to fall. He opened his eyes with a start. If he didn’t act now it would be too late. He was running out of time.
George had precious little to show for his forty seven years and, after what the doctor had told him that morning, he doubted he’d be making it to his forty eighth birthday. Depressing to say the least, he
