"Dad? Dad?"
Christian Shephard tried to ignore his son's attempts to capture his attention and focus on the newspaper in front of him. So far he'd been met with no success whatsoever. He'd not even been able to take in the headline.
"Dad!"
"Yes, Jack," he said, abandoning his futile attempts to read the paper.
"Remember, when I was five. Remember what I asked you?"
"You asked me a lot of questions."
"I asked you for a pony."
"Where are you going with this? I'm very busy," he lied.
"You said you'd give me a pony when the Red Sox won the World Series."
"Yes, and I'll keep my promise. When the Red Sox win the World Series, I'll give you a pony. Pigs will fly, and Ghandi will rise from the dead."
Jack took Christian's paper and flipped to the front page: "RED SOX WIN THE WORLD SERIES".
Christian's eyes widened in shock. His hand leapt to his chest and clutched at his heart. Five seconds of labored breathing later, his heart ceased its frantic beating.
"Dad!"
Despite Jack giving his best efforts to resuscitate his father, there was nothing he could do. His father was dead. Again.
Jack screamed and shook his fist at the ceiling. All those promises his father had made, all those promises he had made, they meant nothing now. They would not be kept. They could not be kept. Jack wrenched the pony catalog from his inner coat pocket, crumpled it in his hand, and threw it across the room. His life had been a lie.
…
And from the ash that had at one time been him, he rose. His legs, his arms, his nose had been made anew. The light from the day's morning sun glinted off the round lenses of his glasses. His new limbs shook with the effort it took to get him in a standing position.
High in the sky something flew by, its shadow momentarily crossing the newly made man. The unidentified fly object caught his attention. He gazed after it and staggered off in its direction. Hungry.