Looking at the the cigarette between his fingers he was aware of the hot ash glowing at the end, and how the breeze gently pulled the warm embers off the tip to spiral them away on it’s current into the air.
The core of a cigarette end can burn at 580 Celsius when not drawn on. A fact he was fully aware of, scanning the back of his hand and absently rubbing the scars stippled across it, scars that covered 90% of his body.
Making his choice had heightened his awareness he thought, drawing back on the last of his cigarette before flicking it across the patio and into the metal bin next to the gates, he wondered if it was like the time his wife was diagnosed with cancer, when she became aware of the beauty in the minutia about her, appreciating every second of the days.
Milo had not been diagnosed with anything, though some would say insanity from the choices he’d made. No one left the group; if they tried, then they too would only have days to live, no chance of remission, certainly no chance of forgiveness.