Submitted for the July 2024 prompt: This Mortal Coil

It was hot out, sticky and miserable. And just now it had started raining. Only a drizzle, not enough to help. Joe watched steam rise from the parking lot for a while, then let the blinds fall shut.

 

The condo was a mess, with books stacked high on every available surface. Masses of unsorted recycling competed with piles of shopping totes (Why does grocery delivery send me reusable totes if I don't ever go to the store?) to clog the narrow passages. He couldn't remember the last time he'd vacuumed.

He looked over at the silent grandfather clock. Joe's father had left it to him. He'd always loved the Winchester chimes; plus, it was company of a sort. But he'd stopped winding it. The five minutes it took were too precious to waste on pointless, neverending, menial tasks.

 

Absently, he brewed a cup of tea, put his feet up, and returned to his book. It was an old favorite, one he usually loved rereading, but somehow, today, it just wasn't worth it. He replaced the bookmark and set it down, then fell into a brown study.

 

Some minutes later, he looked at his Pinero watch. He pressed the button. The readout flashed to life.

 

1:02:24:12:42:36

 

That was how long

 

1:02:24:12:42:35

 

he had left

 

1:02:24:12:42:34

 

to live, just

 

1:02:24:12:42:33

 

under fifteen months.

 

1:02:24:12:42:32

 

* * *

 

Pinero had been a character in an old Heinlein story, one who could measure a person's remaining lifespan using a complex apparatus of his own devising. He'd always thought it a weak tale, unbelievable at its heart, and an ending that was only to be expected.

 

But then, contrary to reason, someone had actually invented the device, miniaturized it, and sold it as a wristwatch. It was guaranteed to be 99% accurate, whatever that meant. People bought them by the millions. The insurance industry folded overnight.

 

After a while, though, the unexpected started to happen: people started dying early. Nobody ever outlived their appointment with death, but some few started taking foolish risks and tempting fate, and it caught up with them. Soon, people stopped wearing them, stopped buying them, and the company went bankrupt.

 

Joe wore his every day.

 

* * *

 

"We're in town for the rest of the week, visiting the museums. I know the boys would love to see you, and Bill wants a rematch at chess."

 

"It's not really the best time," Joe temporized. He didn't want to say no outright, didn't really have a good reason. His sister wouldn't accept I don't want to leave the house.

 

"Oh, come on! You quit your job so you could have more time. Why not spend it with your family? Tell you what -- I'll even spring for dinner. We'll go to that sushi place."

 

He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone for sushi. He used to love it. Now, the thought of what diseases one could catch from raw fish—!

 

His gorge rose, and he barely made it to the bathroom in time.

 

On the way back to his fallen cell phone, he tripped over a worn spot in the carpet, fell, and struck his head on the book he'd left on his coffee table. He scraped his forehead on the table's sharp corner. Blood started to drip.

 

Lucky that book was there, he thought muzzily.

 

Then the world went dark.

 

* * *

 

His sister insisted on driving him home from the hospital. "You're lucky I was on the phone, lucky I was even in town," she said for perhaps the dozenth time.

 

He grunted. That's all she needed from him to keep the conversation going. He made sure to do so at all the essential points.

 

She pulled up in front of his building. "Remember, the doctor said to get some rest. I'll stop by tomorrow afternoon to check on you."

 

He waited until he was safe again, back inside his darkened apartment. He breathed a long sigh, then started shaking uncontrollably.

 

After a while he went to bed.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, he woke early, showered, dressed. His watch and keys weren't where he usually left them, and he panicked until he remembered the hospital visit. He found them in the pocket of yesterday's pants.

 

He put the watch on and pressed the button.

 

-00:00:00:11:37:18

 

He blinked, then pressed it again.

 

-00:00:00:11:37:19

 

It made no sense, but there it was.

 

-00:00:00:11:37:20

 

The watch thought he'd died.

 

He stared at the blank face for a full minute, then started laughing.

 

* * *

 

"Joe? It's me. Are you awake?"

 

"I'm in here!"

 

She found him in the living room beside a mass of recycling, all neatly sorted into reusable totes.

 

"Give me a hand with these. We'll get them downstairs to the bins and then go catch up with your family," he said. "What museum is it today?"

 

"But the doctor said—"

 

Joe laughed merrily. "Oh, what do doctors know? Besides, life's for living!"

 

As the door closed behind them, the grandfather clock began to chime.