Every disease is a death sentence, we agree. 

We’re holding our cell phones. 

But my hands: shaking, shaking.

I’ve called my brother from a sad, tired place. 

My brother is a doctor, and he’s taking a walk in his neighborhood. 

He lives in Alabama’s capital.

The other day, he ate one of the world’s hottest peppers. 

It’s called the Chocolate Bhutlah. 

The Chocolate Bhutlah tops out at 2,000,000 Scoville Heat Units on the official Scoville scale. 

Some claim it’s even hotter than the Carolina Reaper. 

Suddenly, I want to know.

How did it feel?

“Insane how it progressed, escalated in waves, I drank a gallon of milk. 

Traveled up my ears, tickled my epiglottis, thought I was going into anaphylaxis. 

I could feel the massive release of endorphins and dopamine,” he says. 

A truck backs up behind my brother’s voice: his dog reacts. 

I have Parkinson’s, I think, or maybe MS, or ALS. 

One of those things. 

I’m assuming incredible risk — it’s keeping me busy — I’m pacing like the deep down bitch I know myself to be.

My brother says that when these fucking scumbags cut drugs, they add talcum powder, causing a form of Parkinsonism to occur. 

Is that permanent? 

“Yes,” he says, “cumulative.”

(The more you use, the worse it is.) 

“Especially if you snort.

Especially if you inject.”

My fingers did have some trouble managing my jacket zipper last weekend. 

My brother sees young men with heart damage from cocaine addiction all the time. 

Should they try my brother’s peppers? 

“They suffer massive myocardial infarctions, strokes, and cerebral hemorrhages. 

They appear healthy.

They’re totally ripped.”

No, I don’t want to drool all over myself. 

No, I don’t want a motorized scooter. 

No, I don’t want a rectal tube.

He asks if I’ve fallen recently. 

No, I haven’t fallen, not recently. 

I love you. 

And he says, “I love you, too.”

…

Myles Zavelo lives in New York.