Page 6 of Guess Again

Madison, Wisconsin Wednesday, May 28, 2025

“ALS?”

ETHAN REPEATED AS HE SAT WITH PETE IN THE DOCTOR’S lounge.

It explained the limp and subtle slur Ethan heard when his old friend spoke.

“Good old Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

Every specialist I’ve seen has said it’s a real son of a bitch.

Most people don’t make it three years after diagnosis.

What do you know about it, E? And don’t sugarcoat it.”

Ethan knew too much about amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.

It was a progressive nervous system disease for which there was neither a cure nor any great treatments.

Receiving an ALS diagnosis was akin to being handed a death certificate.

The only variable was how long it took to kill you.

Pete’s limp and slur were likely the first visible symptoms. Ethan knew there were others quietly creeping inside Pete’s body that would soon rear their ugly head.

“It’s not good,”

Ethan finally said.

“How fast does it move?”

“It’s different for everyone.

You breathing okay?”

Pete shook his head.

“I’m short of breath all the time.

And not from exerting myself.

Sometimes I’m just watching television and suddenly have a hard time catching my breath.”

Ethan considered holding his tongue for a moment, but knew his old partner would call him out.

“That’s bad, Pete.

When it gets to the lungs .

.

.

it’s nasty and it’s fast.”

Ethan paused. “Sorry.”

“Ah, you’re not telling me anything I haven’t read.

I guess I just wanted to hear it from someone I trusted.”

If his friend made it a year, Ethan would be stunned.

“Any wacky stuff out there?”

Pete asked.

“Eastern medicine, or stem cell, or experimental crap?”

“It’s not my area of expertise, Pete.

But I can put you in touch with some specialists I know.

See if they tell you anything different.”

Pete shook head.

“Been to the best in Milwaukee, Chicago, and Cleveland.

Even spent a week up at Mayo.

They all told me the same thing.”

“They give you a timeframe?”

“None were that blunt, but looks like about a year.

Nine months until the shit hits the fan if my breathing keeps declining—ventilator and all that crap.”

“Sorry, Pete.

I didn’t know you were sick, or I’d have reached out.”

Pete took a sip of coffee.

“Don’t get mushy on me, kid.

I didn’t come for your tears.

But full disclosure, I hope my situation helps sway your decision.”

Ethan lifted his chin.

“Decision about what?”

“The favor I need from you.”