All Write, Already!

His looks belied his youth, no surprise given the cancer that now ravaged his body, leading the most optimistic doctor to predict that he had maybe two or three more days before he descended headlong into whatever lay beyond. Fifty-eight years young, an age at which most of his peers were still vibrant and able to look forward to seeing the birth of the next generation of their lineage.

That said, the man's affairs were magnificently in order; he had known for some time that his departure from the living was imminent, and had meticulously taken care of everything, while at the same time shielding his entire family from the truth. He was prepared to die alone, independently, no burden on anyone save for those he had hired for his final care.

Suddenly, the nurse broke into his room. "Sir, there is someone here to see you." See me? he thought, That's impossible. No one knows I'm sick. No one knows I'm here.

"Tell them to go away. I don't want to see anyone."

A moment passed. Then the nurse returned. "Sir, they say there is something you need to take care of. An obligation you must satisfy before you die."

He was about to tell the nurse to shun them a second time, but for the final time, his curiosity got the better of him. Who could it be? Who could know he was here? Who tracked him down, and why? "Very well. Send them in."

Upon entering the room, the three well-dressed individuals, two men and a woman, introduced themselves. "We are from Columbia House. In 1971, you bought 13 records for a penny, with the promise that someday you would buy eight more at our regular prices. You have bought five; you need to buy three more. Here is our current catologue; feel free to take a moment to look it over..."