On one particular day, Lawrence McCory went to the Doctors Office for a rountine check up. He knew he would have to falsify his insurance, for he didn't have any. Lawrence McCory was a sly and devious man, tricking the Doctors with confident ease. The Doctors gave Lawrence a clean bill of health, as he scurried to his home without shame or remorse.

      He knew it wouldn't be long before he heard the phone ringing off the hook; and he was right. The eager Doctors rang and rang Mr. McCory's home communicator, over and again; but Lawrence was a stubborn sly trickster, as he continued to ignore the seemingly endless telephone ringing. The Doctors sent many letters, with endless notifications; but he never opened them, as they sat upon his table, stacking and piling and toppling over.

    Finally the letters stopped, and the ringing ceased. Lawrence McCory had thwarted his opponent, never having paid for his Doctor's visit. He felt good. He deceived the system, and now he could relax in peace. He layed down on his bed, with a smirky smug of a smile; closing his eyes, as he began to dream.

    Suddenly, Lawrence shot up from out of bed! He couldn't talk, nor could he breathe! Lawrence felt a small drip of blood from his nose. He panicked and cried, and stormed through his house. Without thinking, he ran over to his piling mail, searching for the number of the Doctor he had visited. He tore open one of the many envelopes, almost shredding it completely. When he read the letter, the tiniest gasp had barely escaped his lips.

    It was a letter cleary stating, that Lawrence was not well. His clean bill of health had been an instant mistake due to a falty test result reading. Unfortunately Lawrence had been suffering from a fatal disease; and the Doctors had been trying to help him, and notify him ever since the visit. The disease was treatable. The disease was curable. The disease was meant to be a thing of the past; but now, the disease was killing him. And as for Lawrence McCory, time had run out. Lawrence fell to the kitchen floor, with only the feeling of regret aching though his non-beating heart.