The young doctor, Dr. Evans, stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate so as not to startle her. He had expected a routine case of geriatric fatigue or perhaps a minor injury. What he saw when she removed her coat made him physically recoil.
Her abdomen was distended to a terrifying degree, the skin stretched so tight it looked shiny and bruised. It didn’t look like ordinary obesity; the rest of her was wasting away. It looked as if she had swallowed a basketball.
“Margaret,” Dr. Evans said, keeping his voice level despite his racing pulse. “How long has your stomach been like this?” He reached out, his gloved hand hovering inches from her skin.
Margaret looked down at her lap, shame coloring her pale cheeks. “Ten years,” she admitted softly. “Maybe a little more. I stopped counting after the first few years.”
The doctor exchanged a horrified look with the nurse. Ten years? A condition this advanced usually claimed a life within months. The fact that she was sitting here, breathing and talking, defied every medical textbook he had ever read.
