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Summary
Wilbur steps closer, hand outstretched, moving to check their pulse or perhaps help them up like he’d done with Tommy. He isn’t quite sure which.
The man groans softly, painfully. He looks pale, almost blue.Then he looks up, and their eyes meet.
There’s something unseeing, something glassy about them. His face has a sheen to it, a thin layer of sweat covering him. And his breathing is turning more into a choking noise, a hacking gasp.--
Or,
Is it really possible to make a cure if you’re the one dying?
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Or,
In the apocalypse, Wilbur is infected and, through either fate or determination, doesn’t die. But the clock’s ticking and every second is a second closer to his end.