“I almost died?” “Yes.” “Fuck,” he murmured. “That’s—I don’t even—okay then. That was not how I expected to go out.” “Go out?” “Die,” he stated. “Dying on an operating table? In a hospital gown? Fucking pathetic.” I wasn’t sure what to say to comfort him. It was like he was taking it as a personal insult. But death was death and none of us got to choose how our time came to an end.
