In the morgue, a large man in a suit lay on a stretcher, bloodied, his head nearly severed.

  “Start from the top,” said the sheriff, lighting a cigarette.

  A short, balding man, whom everyone simply called “Doc,” sat on a swivel stool, adjusted his glasses, and began:

  “So I’ve got this patient, Mindy Rose. Terminal cancer. She was expected to pass any day now. Around 1:30 AM, her husband—local miner, good guy—comes bursting in. Covered in blood, arm broken, face a mess. The staff tried to stop him, but he forced his way into her room. When security caught up, he was injecting her with something strange using an unfamiliar device. We sedated him and called the crash team—we had no idea what he gave her. Took a blood sample from Mindy—there’s something in it, but we don’t know what. While we were doing a rapid test, she suddenly gets up—like brand new—and starts looking for her husband. MRI shows the cancer’s gone. Just… vanished. And now she’s floating around like a twenty-year-old.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “So, you asked the husband?”

  “Yeah. He just kept saying he got it from a stranger. Said the guy was nearby—he’d chased him almost to the hospital. Said he needed help—that the guy was dying. We found the guy in the parking lot. Not breathing. Brought him in, but it was too late. So we called you. That’s it.”

  “What can you tell me about the wounds?”

  “We’ll know more after the autopsy. For now—he was shot multiple times, someone tried to cut off his head, and he was beaten with something blunt. Oh, and he reeked of alcohol. He had cash, cards, documents in the name of John Sullivan, and a receipt from the Redheaded Patrick.”