God (by Jon Fasman)'Oh,' he said, taking a retractable metal pointer from his pocket and professionally smoothing his white coat. 'I'm sure it's just a smudge. You see, here.' He pointed at a greyish area. 'An imperfection. Still, I wouldn't want to...'
He looked at her reassuringly, then turned back toward the X-ray. He heard her try to breathe in hope with a short, terrified inhale, and cast a sidelong glance at her, this time secretly, hungrily. He had to stifle a satisfied smile. He knew it all by now, what she'd conjure up in her mind's eye, how she'd turn her actual eyes toward him, imploring, begging, yearning. First for an answer, for certainty, but beneath that surface request - yes, I think we should be sure - for actual life itself. For remission, then for another decade, then five more years, then a chance at five, then as close to five as possible, then for another year, another few months.
What would he give her, he wondered, as he pretended to scrutinize the X-ray? The others had put in a request for a new machine, said this one turned out too many false positives, but did they really have any idea how much fun this was?
'I'll go consult radiology.' He thought he heard a little whimper as he shut the door behind him. She was all his. Even if it was for just ten minutes, he still would get that supplicating look when he came back. How long would he give her?
[The short short story comp is announced and explained here.]