From Interzone #261
Two weeks after his sixty-third birthday, Martin found himself squirming on the crisp white paper of the examination table. The paper, sensitive to his slightest discomfort, objected to his weak struggles with agitated crackling. Gripping the edges of the table, Martin kept his face turned insistently away from the good doctor Medhira, determined not to watch what was being done to him. But now Medhira was reaching deeper, and Martin found it increasingly difficult to breathe.