The man was slow.

Not dim-witted; physically slow. He moved at a ponderous, deliberate pace which made performing any task quickly seem impossible. He was not old or fat or visibly ill, he simply moved as if this were the fastest pace his body could muster: a snail’s.

One might think him lazy at a glance, but his eyes told a different version of things. When he dropped something and he ever so slowly leaned down to pick it up, one would see more than simple annoyance behind his eyes. There was anger.

An anger not at having dropped the thing, but that the task of recovering it was so much harder than it should be.

This was not his natural pace.

No. He had been meant to run, to dance at parties, to chase girls, to maybe one day even climb a mountain.

No more. This pace was not laziness. This really was the best he could do.

And it was killing him.