Bradley rested his forehead on his palms in that way that set his fingertips along his hairline. It was oddly comforting and he needed odd comforts right now.
He was going to miss the end of Lost. The whole final season. Those bastards stretched the show out so badly that he didn’t even know when they’d air the new episodes. Could he write the network and ask to see them early? Or at least have one of their two hundred stars drop by and tell him how it all ended? It was a stupid show. He was pretty sure at this point they were just pulling ancient smog gods and nuclear bomb-induced time travel out of their asses, but he couldn’t know for sure unless he saw it. That first season had been so smart. So calculated. At least part of it had to have some grand design. At the very least Kate was going to have to pick a man instead of bopping between Sawyer and Jack like a hormonal ping-pong ball. And he wanted to know who she'd pick, dammit.
He sighed. You never knew what would come to mind in situations like these.
“So two months?” he asked, looking up at the doctor from between his fingers. “There’s nothing we can do?”