I had a feeling that piece of paper held the answer I was seeking.

I drifted closer, hoping to see what was written on it.

But I was a second too late—Frank Thornton already had it in his grasp.

He stood before the door, the one that separated me from him, life from death.

With trembling hands, he slowly pushed it open.

He staggered forward, his legs so weak he needed support, barely making it to my side.

On the bed lay my bloated body, my features unrecognizable.

Perhaps it had been too long, even I could barely recognize myself.

Frank Thornton's face was ashen, his body rigid, as the...