Clover blankly stared at his phone. On the screen, a routine sitcom played out – the type that was put on to fill dead air – the type no one actually paid attention to. Except, Clover was different; he watched with rapt attention. Perhaps he was dull enough to be amused, or maybe he was desperate enough to let himself be swept along. In the end, it didn’t matter; this shitty sitcom was all he had.

Clover doubled over as a series of coughs wracked his body. With each contraction, his lungs felt like they were trying to climb out of his throat, digging in with tiny hands made of sandpaper. From experience, he knew there was nothing he could do to make the coughing stop. All he could do was tightly grip the fabric around his chest. In some way, that helped ease the pain. Finally, on the seventh cough, a speckling of phlegm and blood sprayed out of his mouth, ending the ordeal for now.

He righted himself as if nothing had happened, resting his back against a pillow. His condition had taken a drastic turn for the worse this morning. A month ago, it was nothing more than a minor annoyance - a little difficulty breathing and the occasional cough, nothing he couldn’t deal with. Except, each day, it had gotten a little worse. Compared to the health complications he was used to dealing with, it was nothing, so he had ignored it.

But now… he stared at the rotten combination of fluids staining the bright blue sheets of his hospital bed…

A cheesy 90’s laugh track played in his ears, cutting off his dark train of thought. “Oh, I missed the punchline,” Clover muttered to himself.

He paused the show and then pulled out his earbuds. He’d go back and watch the scene again, but, right now, he had to clean up. Staring at the results of his coughing fit was making him nauseous.

Well, even more, nauseous than he was already. Which considering how he felt right now was actually quite the accomplishment

He grabbed a napkin off of an untouched tray of food next to his bed. A couple hours ago, a nurse had brought it to him, but the yellowish goop they called mashed potatoes was utterly unappealing to him. Call him picky, but there was no way he would eat something like that, even if it meant going hungry.

Medical machinery gently beeped as he cleaned up the mess. His movements were sluggish and unfocused - as if he was sleepwalking. Which wasn’t too far from the truth. His attention wasn’t focused here on reality.

In his mind, he acted out the scene in the sitcom that he had missed. It was one of his favorites - the episode was about three roommates trying to build a contraption capable of covertly stealing large amounts of soda from Taco Bell.

He had watched the episode enough times to memorize every line. Which was kind of sad, but he didn't have much else to do with his time.

Clover muttered their lines under his breath, switching between different accents for different characters. He folded the napkin in half, then continued. As he reached the end of his performance, Clover took a small bow. At just about this point, he would be given an Academy Award for his excellent acting abilities.

No award came, unfortunately. He snapped back to reality - back to the small white hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and old people. The same room he had been trapped in many times before. He sighed. The pain in his chest came back to focus.

To be honest, he preferred losing himself in daydreams or television shows over facing reality. Maybe it had caused him to miss out on something in life, but to him, anywhere other than here was a good place.

With the cleaning complete, he crumpled the napkin into a ball. There was a trash can in the corner of the room opposite the entrance, not far, less than six feet away, but that was an almost impossible distance for him to cross. The medley of medical equipment attached to him made moving a nightmare, not to mention the fact that he was paralyzed from the waist down.

It was ironic in a way. His mother had named him Clover in the hopes that he would be lucky enough to avoid his family’s history of poor health.

He crumpled the napkin into a tight ball. For a task like this, he didn’t need to be able to walk - back in second grade, he had won an interscholastic cornhole tournament. It was a very serious competition, at least by the standards of 7-year-olds.

In the 11 years since that major victory, he hadn't been able to play much, but he still remembered the basics.

He tossed the balled-up napkin towards the can with, in his opinion, masterful technique, using all the muscles his skeletal arms possessed.

The ball arced over the trashcan bounced off the sterile white wall, then eventually rolled to a stop on the glossy tile flooring next to his motorized wheelchair. The crumpled napkin stared at him, taunting him. He sighed; he had missed.

“Clover, it’s good to see that you’re keeping active.”

Clover turned towards the familiar voice. A tall doctor carrying a pen and clipboard in one hand and a paper bag in the other stood in the doorway; in his preoccupation with making the shot, he hadn’t noticed him.

“Though your aim needs a bit of work.” The doctor smiled as he reached down and stabbed the napkin with his pen, then shook it into the trash.

Clover returned his hands to his lap. “Doctor White, I thought you said you were going home for the night; why are you still here?” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The tired-looking man had been his doctor for as long as he had remembered, and even though he was something of a big shot in the medical community now, Doctor White still made time to drop in whenever Clover made a visit to the hospital.

The doctor plopped down heavily on the corner of the bed and placed the paper bag in Clover’s lap. “We’re short-staffed. Somebody had to pick up the slack.” Dark bags hung under his eyes - he had been here working when his aunt had rushed him to the hospital this morning - more than twelve hours ago.

He wished he had something witty to say to cheer him up like one of the characters from his favorite T.V. shows, but like usual, his mind drew a blank when others were around. “Sorry,” Clover said simply.

“Don’t be; it’s not like I have much to go home to.” He poked the bag. “Enough of that. Open the bag already.”

Clover curiously uncrumpled the opening and looked inside. Inside was a carton of French fries and chicken nuggets. Finally having something palatable to him, he practically threw a chicken nugget down his throat.

“Thanks, they’re good,” he said with his mouth full.

He hadn’t eaten anything for most of the day, so even something as simple as this tasted delicious and was greatly appreciated.

Doctor White laughed. “I remembered you complaining about hospital food while I was on my lunch – well, dinner break. Just don’t let the nurses find out I gave it to you. I’d never hear the end of it.”

Clover stuffed a handful of French fries down his mouth. “I won’t tell anyone,” He paused his feast as a thoughtful look crossed his face. “Do you want one?” Clover asked, his words slightly slurred from the food stuffed in his mouth as he held out the smallest chicken nugget of the bunch.

“Sure.” The doctor took a bite out of the nugget and then stared intently at the clock on the wall. The tired man sighed. “The preliminary results from the tests we ran this morning came back."

“Oh yeah, what’s the damage, doc?” Clover asked, quite proud of himself for thinking of such a cool line.

“The tests indicate you have an advanced stage of lung cancer.” The gentle murmur of the heart rate monitors intensified, turning into a constant shrill screech to his ears. The clock counted down the seconds, each louder than the last.

The whirlwind of sound sucked the air out of his lungs, stealing his questions from his lips.

“We’ve never seen anything like this. When we tested two months ago, we found no malignant cells,” the doctor continued speaking, but to Clover, his voice was drowned out by the incessant ticking of the clock on the wall.

It was all so loud. He could see the doctor’s lips moving, but he couldn’t make out a word he was saying.

I’m going to die. In his chest, he could feel it – the cancerous cells slowly growing in number. Each tiny pinprick was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, slowly growing in intensity until it felt like a fire was burning in his chest.

The doctor gripped his shoulder. “Clover, we have systems in place to help. With modern medicine, we can fight this.” He held out a small stack of papers. “I contacted a neighboring research facility; they have a new experimental treatment that could help you. It wouldn’t cost you anything.”

He took the papers and looked them over. “How long do I have left?” he forced the words out of his unwilling mouth. Part of him didn’t want to know.

“It’s hard to put an exact number on it because we have never seen a case develop as quickly as yours before.” He paused for a moment, not wanting to say what came next. “If your condition followed an average progression, I’d say you would have around 3 months, but in your case, two weeks to a month is the most you should expect.”

That wasn’t nearly enough time - for anything really.

Clover hurriedly skimmed through the papers, ignoring the complex medical terms he didn’t know. As he reached the end of the page, he sighed. In his heart, he knew the procedure wouldn’t work. For someone as unlucky as him, this type of gamble would never pay off. He put the papers down.

“It’s a long shot, but it could work. As long as you don’t give up, there’s a chance this could work. This new technique shows real promise.”

A nurse burst into the room, her uniform slightly burnt. “Doctor White, come quickly; there’s been an emergency. You’re needed.”

He waved her away. “Tell them to wait. I’ll handle it later.”

“No, it’s urgent; you need to come now. There's been a fire in an operating room.”

The doctor stood with a sigh. “Think it over. We’ll be ready to start the experimental procedure in the morning if that’s the route you want to go.” Clover watched him leave, too numb to do anything.

For a long while, he simply sat in his bed, too shocked to think or move. During this time, his only companion was the constant ticking of the clock, counting the seconds till his end. It was strangely peaceful – a state of numbness that no emotion could penetrate. Maybe this is what being dead is like?

The thought shot through his lethargy, sending a spike of adrenaline through his veins.

“Cancer,” he mulled the word over in his mouth. He sighed. He wanted to run away – far from here, to live freely before he died. There were still so many things he wanted to do. So many simple things he hadn’t had the chance to experience yet. Stupid and childish desires, like taking a walk through the park while eating a cone of ice cream.

Clover had to face the facts; that type of life wasn’t in the cards for him; odds were, he’d sit in a small room like this till the end of his days. He was stuck. There was nothing he could do. His condition couldn't be beaten by willpower.

With shaking hands, he put his earbuds back in and turned the mediocre sitcom he was watching back on at full volume. The characters talked, laughed, and danced across the screen; they did all the things he wished he could. It didn’t matter how poor the delivery or execution of a joke was; he laughed along as if he was in the room with them. He wanted to be like them. He wanted to live a normal life.

In that dark and lonely hospital room, their life was so loud that if only for a moment, he could forget his own. Unmoving, he stared at his phone with empty eyes till the late hours of the night. With the smallest of smiles on his face, the character’s voices lulled him to sleep.

That night he slept fitfully, haunted by a strange dream that seemed to last for a lifetime.

-------------------------------

Clover woke up to the sound of a distant fire alarm blaring. What’s going on? He fumbled around in bed for a moment, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. He sat up in bed and immediately noticed that something was profoundly wrong.

Adrenaline shot through his veins like a bolt of lightning, blasting away his last vestiges of sleepiness.

Overhead, a light dimly flickered. That wasn't what was off in the scene- lightbulbs went out all the time; it wasn't a big deal. Clover wasn't scared of the dark. No, what concerned him was the dark red blood pooling beneath the door to his room.

A shrill scream echoed down the hallway.

Welcome to the System.