《To Run Again》


 One

    ¡°Thank you so much for your time; we¡¯ll let you know if you¡¯re chosen by the end of the week.¡±


    The hunched man in the wheelchair was escorted out on squeaking wheels. As the chair¡¯s rattle receded down the hall, Dr. Laura Brandie was left with a few moments to collect her thoughts. She tapped her pencil against her clipboard as she reviewed her notes: age was around what she¡¯d wanted, but the two decades of smoking left the general constitution weaker than was ideal. The patient presented with clear-cut, complete diplegia brought on by spinal injury, and as Laura leafed through the medical reports of that accident, she reasoned that the cut was likely clean enough for treatment to have a chance at meaningful impact.


    All in all, a promising-enough candidate; his paperwork was placed in the finalists¡¯ pile, joining three others from earlier that morning.


    ¡°Next volunteer can enter,¡± Laura called, rifling through her notepad for a blank page. From the door behind her, she heard a scuffling, a shuffle, a drag¡­ and again: scuffle, shuffle, drag. It was a sound that brought with it a wave of goosebumps, a wave of memories. That was a sound that brought to mind the way Mom used to stumble around the creaky wooden floorboards of the Pennsylvania house¡ªor, at least, the gait she¡¯d borne for the few years between diagnosis and the end. Laura¡¯s tenth birthday had also been the funeral, and all Laura could remember of the thing was hating the fact that it had rained.


    Laura turned to face the shuffling footsteps, and, of course, the newcomer was not Regina Brandy; ALS had set her to peace nearly three decades prior. But the newcomer walked with that same flailing footstep that bespoke the poor coordination of significant nerve damage. The hobbling woman leaned on a cooked cane that wobbled nearly as much as its owner did; Laura immediately rose to her feet to assist.


    ¡°Please, let me,¡± Laura started, but the woman dismissed her with a proud wave.


    ¡°This old stick¡¯s never failed me yet,¡± she said, setting herself down heavily in the chair.


    ¡°Are you comfortable?¡± Laura asked.


    The woman nodded through huffing breaths. ¡°Good enough to start,¡± she wheezed, but already her breathing became less heavy, less strained.


    Laura¡¯s eyes began her preliminary assessment: the woman¡¯s palsy seemed to affect the legs and torso, but arms were more stable¡ªthe woman¡¯s leaning on the cane proved as much. Laura¡¯s eyes next found the deep, smoothed scars across the woman¡¯s face and neck, vanishing into the neckline of her blouse. Not genetic then, Laura thought. Something brought on by acute injury, likely. Only then did her eyes settle on the crow¡¯s feet that wrinkled the eyes, the nasolabial folds, the whisps of grey that accented her frazzled hair. Laura frowned.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°My name is Dr. Brandie; thanks for volunteering to talk with us. Please speak as clearly into the microphone as you¡¯re able,¡± Laura said, reciting the first line of her script. She then reached for the stack of submitted paperwork, grabbing the stapled corners to flip packet-by-packet.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± Laura asked.


    ¡°Alexandra Harmon,¡± the woman answered, finding her breath again.


    ¡°And how old are you, Ms. Harmon?¡± Laura asked, flipping for the paperwork filed under Harmon.


    ¡°Sixty-three last month.¡±


    Laura pursed her lips. ¡°I can see you have nerve damage, sure, but the sign-up forms should have made our desired candidate¡¯s age range quite clear¡ª"


    ¡°It¡¯s not for me,¡± Alexandra said. ¡°It¡¯s for my son.¡±


    Laura peered up from the paperwork. ¡°Well, then, if he¡¯s of age, we¡¯d need him to volunteer himself, as a procedure this¡­ invasive of course requires express consent.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m his court-appointed full guardian, as he¡¯s deemed unable to make his own medical decisions.¡±


    Laura¡¯s mind rattled through possible conclusions. Incompetency, nerve damage¡­ stroke? TBI? ¡°As you may know, our procedure is no ¡®miracle cure.¡¯ The KSE serves as a new neuromuscular system, in a way, but we still need a functional, competent brain to direct it. What¡¯s the nature of your son¡¯s condition?¡±


    Alexandra Harmon leaned forward on her cane, a grave expression on her face. ¡°The first doctors called it a pseudocoma,¡± she said. Laura, too, suddenly leaned in, and a satisfied smile twitched the corner of Alexandra¡¯s scarred lips as she noted the change in demeanor. ¡°Ah, so you¡¯ve heard of it, Dr. Brandie?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t mean to imply¡­¡± Laura began. Alexandra merely nodded.


    ¡°Locked-in Syndrome.¡±


    Laura reeled. LIS had, what, a handful of cases per year? ¡°Patient¡¯s age?¡± she asked dazedly.


    ¡°Twenty-nine.¡± The perfect age range¡ªbrain no longer developing, but still young enough to adapt.


    ¡°Etiology of his condition? Uh, I mean, how he got it?¡±


    ¡°Car wreck,¡± Alexandra said. ¡°Same as, well¡­¡± She gestured to herself, her cane, her scars on her neck. ¡°¡¯Bridge ices before road,¡¯ as the signs always say.¡±


    Laura set down her pencil and clipboard¡ªshe hadn¡¯t needed it since the moment Ms. Harmon said Locked-in. She steepled her fingers and considered the woman anew.


    ¡°Is it true, what the paperwork said?¡± Emotion cracked at Alexandra¡¯s voice, her face twisting with pain. Laura wondered if that pain was physical or remembered. ¡°You¡¯d be able to help my Brett walk again?¡±


    Laura reached across the table and clasped Alexandra¡¯s clammy hands, as knobby and cold as the head of her wooden cane.


    ¡°Far more than that, Ms. Harmon¡­ we¡¯ll help him run again.¡±

 Two

    Dr. Brandie imagined the vibrance of a springtime meadow, wind whipping through her hair and bringing the unmistakable scents of life. It was a pleasant image to hold while walking through a place that was every part its opposite. At the Carlile Medical Complex, the air was unmoving and dull, stale and heavy¡ªas though weighed down by envy for the vitality it should have carried.


    In the long-term-care wing of the facility, Dr. Brandie was escorted to a private room on the sixth floor. As she entered, the first thing she noticed was the floor-to-ceiling windows, and she was heartened to see them. Such good for the spirits, natural light can be. Her eyes next traced downward¡ªone could tell a lot about a medical facility by the condition of its floors. These were clean, polished white, and the rounded corners were neatly swept of dust and debris¡ªimpeccable, nearly, though Laura noted a strange olive-colored scuffing on the floor next to a sagging bedside chair. Multi-layered, vaguely circular pattern¡­ could it be¡ª


    ¡°His view¡¯s impressive, isn¡¯t it?¡± Alexandra¡¯s scratching voice sounded from the doorway, and Laura heard the woman¡¯s shuffling gait as she, too, made her way into the room. She clutched a bag of crackers from the hall¡¯s vending machines under her arm. ¡°View¡¯s better than mine at least,¡± she huffed as she stumbled her way through the room, and then, with a sigh of gratitude, she set herself down into the sagging chair. As she sat, she clutched her cane, and Laura noted that its base sat at the center of the smattering of scuffmarks; its olive-colored rubber tip was the final puzzle piece.


    ¡°You¡¯re here often, aren¡¯t you?¡± Dr. Brandie asked.


    ¡°Every damn hour I can be,¡± she said, and the warmth in her voice made Laura hear mother more than matron.


    It was enough to pull Laura¡¯s gaze at last to the form wrapped in the bed¡¯s white blankets. His eyes were closed, but as Laura well knew, that didn¡¯t necessarily mean that he was asleep. Locked-in Syndrome went leagues beyond merely quadriplegic. In Brett Harmon¡¯s case, his paralysis was essentially complete: he could open and close his eyes, he could look up and down, and he could voluntarily move not a single muscle more.  And perhaps most troubling of all, his mind was otherwise intact: he was a statue that could live, could breathe, could think, but he could never speak, could never smile, could never even so much as turn his head. At war within Laura were two contradictory feelings. Here was a life-sentenced prisoner in a cell made of flesh¡­ it was enough to bring an empathetic shudder and a ripple of goosebumps. And yet, at the same time, here was a man who stood to gain more from the KSE than perhaps anyone else; Laura¡¯s stomach burned with anticipation as she merely imagined making such a profound difference in Brett¡¯s quality of life.


    ¡°Is he awake?¡± Laura asked, and Alexandra nodded.


    ¡°You can tell by the breathing¡ªit¡¯s slower when he¡¯s resting.¡±


    Laura nodded and leaned in toward Brett, taking his hand in hers. His eyes fluttered open, but they didn¡¯t search for Laura¡¯s; they held flatly on the window across the room.


    ¡°Hey there Brett, my name is Dr. Laura Brandie. Did your mother tell you anything about me?¡±


    Laura waited expectantly for the man¡¯s eyes to move, for some acknowledgement of the question or new presence in the room, but his gaze never shifted¡­ his eyes stayed locked on the window, perhaps staring towards the distant forest at the edge of the city.


    ¡°He stopped answering questions a few months ago, which is why the state appointed me his decisionmaker. Brain scans confirmed he¡¯s still here¡ªjust quiet these days.¡±


    Dr. Brandie nodded gravely. Humans normally wore their emotions on their faces¡ªthe raised eyebrows of elation, the sagging eyes of depression. But in a patient with full facial paralysis, that expressiveness was gone. Brett¡¯s face was a placid neutral, if tired. There was no heavy set to the shoulders, no deep wrinkles of a frown, not even so much as a glimmer in the watery eyes to betray the despondency or despair he must feel.


    ¡°We¡¯re gonna get you better again,¡± Dr. Brandie promised, releasing the man¡¯s hand as she stood. And then, as though on cue, the quiet stillness of the wing was replaced with a rising commotion of murmured conversation and screeching wheels, and then the two women turned toward the scuffling footsteps of Dr. Brandie¡¯s approaching entourage.


    Eight they were, men and women both, wearing white coats and wheeling delicate machinery on carts. The terminals and casings, all of a sleek, white metal, were unloaded; keyboards, instrument panels, and electrodes were unfolded on hinges from the undersides of desks; the overhead lights flickered as a thick-grade extension cable was plugged in, and then snaking wires were passed and connected as machinery whirred to life.


    ¡°Y¡¯all brought the whole damn laboratory,¡± remarked Alexandra Harmon, scooting her chair into the corner by the bedside to make more space.


    ¡°Brett seemed in little condition to visit us,¡± Dr. Brandie said.


    ¡°So¡­ now? You¡¯re doing it now?¡± She balked.


    Dr. Brandie pursed her lips. No matter how in-detail the consent forms went, no matter how significant the stakes, patients (and their caretakers) would often scratch their signatures on the line without so much as reading 10 words. It was the legal equivalent of crossing the street without looking both ways, but in the world of medical science, that street was more like a highway. There was science to be done, real, life-changing science, and Alexandra Harmon apparently could hardly be bothered to read the entire volunteer agreement. Dr. Brandie tried to not let her frustration color her reply.


    ¡°As the paperwork outlined, we start with this, well, calibration visit.¡± She gestured with her neck toward a technician holding what might have seemed a price scanner at a grocery store. ¡°We start with taking full-body measurements¡ªnot merely height and weight, but specific dimensions for things like the arms, legs, torso, and more. Ensuring the proper amount of KSE to install is something of an exact science.¡±


    A bottle of viscous gel squirted into a gloved hand, and then the clear gel was rubbed unceremoniously into Brett¡¯s thinning hair. ¡°We scan brain activity, of course, to better understand the health of the control centers atop the nervous system.¡± A series of electrodes were adhered to Brett¡¯s scalp, and then a cap with dozens more was placed atop it. Meanwhile, technicians touched pointed probes with needle-like tips to Brett¡¯s arms, staring at readings at their base. ¡°We test nerve conductivity¡ªreally a measure of body hydration more than anything else. Don¡¯t worry, it¡¯s painless to the paralyzed. We use them to look for any unexpected breaks in nerve conduction¡ªfull-body paralysis happens in the brainstem, which would make it hard to see if there were a nerve severed in an arm or leg.¡±The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The technician with the needle-point probe raised a thumbs up, and Dr. Brandie smiled. ¡°All clear, at that. That man to Brett¡¯s right is performing something akin to an allergist¡¯s scratch test¡ªthe KSE is a foreign substance entering the body, so we¡¯d like to make sure Brett doesn¡¯t react poorly.¡±


    ¡°What is it, exactly?¡±


    ¡°Think of it like a thousand tiny machines that work together to move Brett¡¯s muscles¡ªa single network, directed by his brain. Speaking of,¡± Dr. Brandie said, gesturing towards a silvery metal case. A technician popped it open with reverence, raising the lid slowly.


    Alexandra rose to better see the case¡¯s contents. Inside, on a bed of sleek, velvety black packing foam, sat a strange square of burnished rose-gold-colored metal that glistened as though rubbed with oil. Etchings and gridlines of laser-cut circuitry formed arcane patterns across its face, and a tangle of fine fibers like mechanical dreads extended out the object¡¯s base. The technician at the case lifted the device with exaggeratedly slow movements¡ªas though the thing might explode if mishandled. All of the bustling pin-pricks and measurements and electrodes seemed to pause as everyone in their room¡ªsave for Brett¡ªcraned their necks to look at the small square. It was no larger than a slice of cheese, but Alexandra suspected it would cost more than a whole hamburger franchise. ¡°What is that?¡± she asked, whispering now, as though the sound of her voice might crack its polished face.


    ¡°That, there, is the Nexus¡­ the swarm controller, the system¡¯s own brain. The braid of fibers at the base, that will be grafted to Brett¡¯s nerve system¡ªdirectly to the brain. The pinkish square¡ªwe call it the ¡®black box¡¯¡ªthat will read Brett¡¯s nerve signals and translate it, so-to-speak, into a language that the KSE can understand. Do you know much about neural networks¡ªthe machine learning types, not the biologic type?¡±


    Alexandra mutely shook her head.


    ¡°Me neither, to be honest, before I started this project¡­ seemed like esoterica for the computer scientists. But the human brain is a complicated thing: we¡¯ve got something like 85 billion neurons, each of us. That¡¯s billion with a B. If you wanted to lift your arm, the right neurons in the right places fire off, sending signals to the muscles¡ªin Brett¡¯s case, that signal never goes anywhere, given that things are cut where the brain plugs into the nervous system. But imagine that we had real-time, perfect knowledge of which neurons are firing. Suppose I gave you a list of which neurons specifically are firing, in which clusters, at what intensities, and at what time¡­ how do we tell which limb Brett is trying to lift?¡±


    Alexandra shrugged her shoulders. ¡°Enlighten me, doc.¡±


    ¡°Hell if I know myself,¡± Dr. Brandie said. ¡°But that type of question¡ªturning a massively large and complex input to a single, actionable output¡ªthat is exactly the type of thing neural networks are good at.¡±


    ¡°So, what, is that thing artificial intelligence?¡±


    Dr. Brandie shook her head. ¡°Not quite¡ªit¡¯s not awake, not thinking in the traditional sense. Maybe it¡¯s more like a subconscious mind at best. It can decide things, sure, but a calculator can ¡®decide¡¯ whether to show a number as a fraction or a decimal based on the operations used. It¡¯s clever, and it¡¯s complex, but it¡¯s nothing more than a wild tangle of interlocking rules, hard coded into sophisticated chipware.¡±


    ¡°A calculator,¡± Alexandra repeated. She watched, breath held, as a group of technicians crowded around Brett, fussing over machine readings. One whispered to Brett¡¯s ear and then nodded to a counterpart with a syringe. Brett¡¯s IV bag was injected with something clear, and, in moments, Brett¡¯s watery eyes flicked shut.


    ¡°A sedative?¡±


    Dr. Brandie nodded. ¡°What comes next shouldn¡¯t hurt him¡ªhis nerves transmit no pain¡ªbut we need a sample of cerebrospinal fluid. You switch off the engine before you go rummaging in the gas tank.¡±


    Alexandra watched as Brett was gently rolled to his stomach, his gown pulled open, and then a nurse produced a new syringe; this one was larger, with a needle that nearly resembled a drinking straw. Alexandra stammered. ¡°That looks much too¡ª¡±


    ¡°No sense in watching, Mrs. Harmon, and remember that he feels no pain. Do you trust me?¡±


    Alexandra nodded, and Dr. Brandie smiled with a practiced warmth.


    ¡°Then look up at the ceiling with me, count of four, and it¡¯ll be done. Just like that, Mrs. Harmon. One, two, three¡­ four. All good now.¡±


    The two women turned back to the bed in time to see one of the nurses taping a gauze pad over a blooming dot of red. The large syringe, formerly empty, was now filled with a clear liquid that might have been water, but Alexandra knew it was anything but. The syringe was taken to the rose-gold-colored square and injected into a small reservoir at the device¡¯s center. The liquid flowed through channels carved into the device, and if the square had appeared slick with oil before, now it looked as though it were properly lathered in petroleum jelly.


    ¡°The brain and spinal networks have their own immune system¡ªand microglia are notoriously sensitive to invaders, be they stray bacteria or sophisticated KSE machinery. Normally, we¡¯d use immunosuppressant medication, but the blood-brain-barrier poses, well, a difficult barrier. To combat that, we¡¯ve just draped the Nexus in a thick layer of biologic camouflage. When his cells scan the Nexus, they¡¯ll see his body¡¯s own signature, and things should be left alone.¡± The Nexus was gingerly placed in a plastic sac filled with a thick clear liquid. ¡°To preserve things until surgery,¡± Dr. Brandie noted.


    ¡°When is that supposed to be?¡± Alexandra asked.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be getting the samples collected just now to our printers tonight¡ªwe need to print KSE substrate with the correct biomarkers. Based on averaged printing rates, we should have enough for the first round of injections in fifteen working days. To give time for Brett to acclimate post-surgery before that first substrate dose, how about a week from today?¡±


    Alexandra pursed her lips, swallowed. Dr. Brandie noted that her knuckles were balled white on the head of her wobbling cane. Gone was the easy smile of an affectionate mother, replaced by the wariness of a woman who was stranded far outside of her element. ¡°You don¡¯t have to let me know right now¡ªyou can mull it over with Brett here.¡± Dr. Brandie placed a business card on the bedside table, near to a mug of coffee that sat on a stacked collage of hundreds of coffee rings¡ªyet more proof of this mother¡¯s tireless dedication. ¡°Call my number directly when you¡¯re ready to schedule.¡±


    Alexandra nodded, grateful for the reprieve. ¡°It¡¯s all, you know, a lot to consider all at once. I¡¯ll talk with him tonight and try to get him to agree,¡± Alexandra murmured, watching as the technicians began to collect their sophisticated equipment. With how quickly they¡¯d come, the whirlwind of their prodding, and now how quickly it all was packed back onto their screeching carts, Alexandra felt like she¡¯d just survived a tornado more than a medical visit.


    When the swarm of footsteps retreated down the echoing halls, Alexandra¡¯s knees began to wobble, and she fell roughly into her sagging chair. She was midway through taming her breathing back to resting baseline when a final nurse entered the room with a knock.


    ¡°Courtesy of Doctor Brandie,¡± he said, gesturing to a fresh mug of coffee on a metal tray. ¡°She said it looked like yours had gone cold.¡±


    The nurse collected the old mug and left Alexandra with the new one. Alexandra lifted it to her mouth and took a lengthy pull of the dark liquid, a frown immediately blooming on her face. Dr. Brandie acted like a woman in control of every detail, entire teams of medical experts marching to her softly-spoken commands¡­ but despite the unquestioned authority and meticulous oversight, despite the fact that Dr. Brandie herself must have poured in half-and-half until the coffee turned to the exact same shade of fallow brown she remembered from the mug by the business card, the woman wasn¡¯t infallible: Alexandra preferred her coffee with no sugar, but Dr. Brandie had added two packets at least.


    Alexandra winced at the saccharine taste and set down the mug. It wasn¡¯t that Dr. Brandie had failed to read her mind and learn an unspoken preference¡­ what rubbed Alexandra the wrong way was the casual way Dr. Brandie assumed she knew everything, the way that she hadn¡¯t even bothered to ask.

 Three

    Camera shutters crackled like volleys of gunfire, and a strobing flash left afterimages swirling in Dr. Brandie¡¯s view. As the floating, green spot started to fade, she let her eyes wander from figure to figure in the first few rows of seats. Hands scribbled furiously at notes on small notepads, while others tapped with impressive speed on laptop keyboards. They were all hunched forward, practically squirming on their seats.


    ¡°Any moment now,¡± she said into the podium microphone. It whined with feedback, the mic apparently as uneasy as the attending press felt, as uneasy as she herself felt. She was grateful that the podium obscured her feet, lest the whole of the press conference see her left foot¡¯s nervous tapping.


    She glanced at her phone: still 0 new messages.


    She took a sip of her water, trying not to listen to the rising murmurs from the back of the room. After an uncomfortable span of heavy silence that felt like hours but might have only been a minute, of anticipatory breathing and jittering legs, her phone at long last buzzed in her hands.


    DR. JORDAN, 12:07 P.M.: ??


    Dr. Brandie let out a puff of air that might have been a laugh, might have been a sigh, but whichever it was, it expelled her stress and apprehensions with it.


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce the first successful installation of the KSE system¡ªone small step for the paralyzed, and one giant leap for mankind.¡±


    The room broke out into sudden chatter. Reporters stood, arms and notebooks waving in the air to catch Dr. Brandie¡¯s attention.


    ¡°Yes, you, here in the front.¡±


    ¡°Damian Barrow, Seattle Daily News. How long before you know if the patient can walk again?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the thing we love about our system, Mr. Barrow. That¡¯s already known, already a certainty. KSE stands for Kinetic Semi-autonomous Endoskeleton. Unpacking those words, we¡¯ve got ¡®kinetic,¡¯ which obviously describes the movement it enables. There¡¯s ¡®endoskeleton,¡¯ the KSE supporting the patient from within. And there¡¯s ¡®semi-autonomous,¡¯ which means that the system can run itself.


    ¡°Right now, the substrate has bound to his musculoskeletal system and is confirmed to be receiving signals from the Nexus processing unit. It¡¯s not a matter of ¡®if his body can use it¡¯ or ¡®if he can take to it.¡¯  Think of it like¡­ we¡¯ve implanted a flashlight into his body, and you¡¯ve asked me ¡®when will we know if the light can turn on?¡¯ We knew that from the moment we implanted the thing, and the answer is just as obvious¡ªright away, needing only the signal to start.¡±


    More hands shot up, notebooks wagging in the air. Camera strobes fired again, leaving a new wave of green afterimages drifting across Dr. Brandie¡¯s view.


    ¡°Yes, you, woman with the auburn blouse.¡±


    ¡°Sharon Wallace, New Metro Times. Is it true that implanting the KSE led to the direct death of over 400 rodent recipients due to muscle hyperextension?¡±


    Dr. Brandie let her face fall, knowing that it was the expected reaction to animal deaths. If she were being honest with herself, she was long past feeling remorse for the death of a mere lab rat, but she respected their steady contributions. When endoskeletons went awry, when the wrong muscle commands were executed, things got messy: images of the tiny creatures twisted into small tumbleweeds of fur and bone hadn¡¯t caused her to lose any sleep, but she did feel disappointed that she hadn¡¯t quite managed to configure the KSE right on her first animal trial, or even her fortieth. Their deaths were no tragedy, but they were consequences of Dr. Brandie¡¯s own mistakes, and that, more than anything else, drew the frown to her face.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°No medical advancement worth its research grant is without a pet cemetery¡¯s worth of lost test subjects. Insulin to treat modern diabetes only came about thanks to trials on dogs; polio vaccines were only developed after intentionally injecting monkeys with the disease and trying out different curatives. While it¡¯s true that the KSE¡ª¡±


    ¡°But Dr. Brandie, what are the risks of your John Doe patient succumbing to a similar fate?¡± the same reporter interrupted.


    ¡°Mathematically zero,¡± Dr. Brandie assured. ¡°The Nexus unit was added as an essential intermediary controller to moderate and regulate muscle commands. That component itself is the heart of the ¡®semi-autonomous¡¯ component of the KSE, and it keeps all of its substrate behaving properly. Malfunctions like those early trails are provably impossible under the new system.¡±


    The reporters could sense the end of an answer, and so their hands shot up just as Dr. Brandie¡¯s previous sentence wound down. Dr. Brandie glanced from reporter to reporter, settling on a mustachioed old man with a worn cap. ¡°Yes, you with the hat.¡±


    ¡°Paul Creighton, Tacoma Enquirer. If the KSE-what-have-you uses nanobots, like they say, has your team done enough to prevent ¡®grey goo¡¯ scenarios? I¡¯m no science fiction author, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°The KSE cannot self-replicate. Grey goo concerns are thus moot. Next question.¡±


    ¡°Theodora Roush, Medicinal Globe¡ªthere are those who consider -research into wildly expensive treatments like the KSE to be academic frivolity. What would you say to critics who believe the KSE¡¯s price point makes it impractical for public treatment?¡±


    ¡°While speaking of finances¡ªthe Medicinal Globe, your publication, receives over 90% of its operating funding from Fitzpatrick Pharmaceuticals, does it not? The very same company pouring billions of dollars into its own nerve therapies?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not aware,¡± said the reporter.


    ¡°Well, I am,¡± Dr. Brandie admonished, with all the stern firmness of a mother correcting a wayward child. ¡°I invite you to ask that same question of your sponsor¡¯s Project Cordell¡ªdespite being years from a workable prototype, their per-treatment cost is already looking to be double that of the KSE, if not more.¡±


    ¡°Can you offer a direct response instead of a deflection?¡±


    Dr. Brandie glared at the woman¡ªa look that normally sent lab techs scurrying away¡ªbut the reporter stood firm. ¡°Then to answer your question, my team and I believe that there is no price too high for good health. To take someone with effectively no quality of life and give them their freedom back? The ability to walk around, care for themselves, feed themselves, hell, even wipe themselves? That¡¯s damn worth any price if you ask me. Let the insurance providers and hospital systems figure out the finances¡ªmy team¡¯s work is improving lives, not wasting time with economics.¡±


    A new volley of hands shot up with a cacophony of dozens of overlapping follow-up questions. Skeletal failures, grey goo, financial considerations¡­ these weren¡¯t the topics Dr. Brandie had imagined the questions might focus on. She was no publicist, but she was socially attuned enough to read a room, and she could tell the tone here was falling to skepticism, negativity. It would take a miracle to make believers of them; fortunately for Dr. Brandie, allowing the paralyzed to walk again was one such biblical miracle.


    ¡°I believe the results of the KSE will speak for themselves,¡± she said to the reporters, ¡°and so I¡¯ll answer no more questions for today. I need to go visit the patient and ensure everything is in order¡­ our media portal will contain updates to patient John Doe¡¯s recovery, and we will remain responsive to selected email questions. Thank you all for your time and attention.¡±

 Four

    ¡°KSE clinical trial, day 15 post-surgery,¡± Dr. Brandie spoke softly into the handheld microphone unit. Her tone was clinically neutral, the auditory equivalent of the eggshell-white walls of the laboratory she sat in. That placid neutrality was a practiced, hard-to-maintain thing; it was all she could do to sit still and quell her giddiness just looking up at the figure seated across from her. ¡°Patient name, Brett Harmon,¡± she said, looking at his seated posture¡ªupright and unsupported by external assistance devices. The overhead fluorescent lights were sleepy and buzzing, casting tired shadows over Brett¡¯s sunken and atrophied face, but Dr. Brandie¡¯s eyes sparkled as though she stared at gold¡ªnot a man but a Nobel Prize, unlimited grant funding, whatever ends her professional heart desired.


    ¡°Following successful surgical implanting of the KSE Nexus, Brett received his first injection of KSE substrate on day 0, a second on day 8, and his final just this morning¡ªday 15. No adverse reactions were observed.¡±


    Aside from the steady rising and falling of his chest, Brett sat as still as a mannequin. The effect was somewhat unnerving, so Dr. Brandie moved to start with the tests.


    ¡°On day 8, we began testing of physical capabilities for Brett¡¯s arms and torso, finding hand and arm function to be fully restored.¡± Dr. Brandie¡¯s face was colored by wistful recollection, watching again as the man passed his arm back and forth in front of his face in shock and amazement. His face was still mostly paralyzed¡ªthat degree of fine muscle control was still beyond this iteration of the KSE¡ªbut Dr. Brandie could see the way his eyes lit up with wonder at his recovered capability. She¡¯d promised him more wonder, and today, she made good on that promise.


    ¡°With this morning¡¯s final substrate dose administered, we begin trials now for Brett¡¯s lower body¡ªlegs, balance, and coordination." She stood, and, to her continued delight, Brett stood as well. The two walked over to a treadmill where technicians stood at the ready with wires and electrodes, always wires and electrodes. As they were fitted to Brett¡¯s arms, chest, and neck, Dr. Brandie walked toward the treadmill¡¯s controls.


    ¡°We¡¯re starting our first trial with sustained walking speed of 1 meter per second,¡± the technician said. ¡°Just south of average walking speeds.¡±


    Dr. Brandie shook her head. ¡°Were this some patient recovering with traditional muscle therapy, that might make sense¡­ giving the withered muscles time to find their proper paths of motion. But remember that the KSE is doing the lifting now, and it doesn¡¯t need to be babied¡­ you don¡¯t have to drive your new car at a turtle¡¯s pace until the engine gets used to driving. No, I think we¡¯ll start with a run. Configure for 3.5 meters per second.¡± The technician swallowed, but she complied, both knowing that arguing the point would get her nowhere.


    Dr. Brandie next reached for a thick print of foamboard propped up on a nearby lab counter. Its surface was covered in ovals, and each oval featured a word or phrase written inside. The largest two ovals were at the bottom left and right corners, containing the words Yes and No respectively. Words were clustered based on semantic meaning: near to the Yes oval was one that said Please, and to that oval¡¯s right was one that said Thank you. As was the case with facial expressions, the fine motor control of speaking was beyond the KSE, but Brett could communicate by way of pointing at this board¡­ there would be time to learn sign language later.


    Dr. Brandie watched with satisfaction as the final electrodes were fitted to Brett¡¯s chest and his gown was drawn back closed.


    ¡°Are you ready, Brett?¡± she asked. She held up the communication board, and Brett tapped the oval for Yes.


    Technicians stood to either side, clipboards in hand. Brett climbed atop the machine and gripped the handrails¡ªhis hold was relaxed, easy. No muscles quavered, there was no clumsiness of newfound mobility Dr. Brandie had seen in so many physical recovery trials¡­ Brett looked like any other runner climbing onto a treadmill, ready to begin today¡¯s workout.


    ¡°Begin trial,¡± Dr. Brandie commanded, and the treadmill was toggled on. Its track rolled slowly at first, and Brett shuffled forward to keep up with its leisurely pace. In seconds, that steady slow roll became a trot, and Brett¡¯s posture changed to adapt. His arms drew in, and his steps jostled him easily up and down as he kept up. By the rising whir of the electric motor, Dr. Brandie could tell that the belt was still accelerating¡ªperhaps accelerating too much. A voice in the back of her mind told her to stop it there, to consider this trial a success at even this speed, but a louder voice wondered just how far the KSE could go.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Doctor, should we, well¡­¡± started the technician nearest, but she let her question trail off. She, like Dr. Brandie, was totally captivated by the smooth, easy run of the man on the treadmill¡ªa man who hadn¡¯t even been able to turn his head mere weeks ago.


    ¡°Heart rate data?¡± asked Dr. Brandie.


    ¡°Elevated, but stable, and not all that far from baseline for a non-athlete running.¡±


    ¡°Substrate muscle readings?¡±


    ¡°Contractions are stable, sustained.¡±


    Dr. Brandie let out a laugh of delight. ¡°Push the treadmill up by 1¡­ 4.5 meters per second.¡±


    The engine whirred high-pitched chords, and Brett¡¯s stable thumping steps matched the new tempo. Dr. Brandie¡¯s eyebrows raised¡­ she herself would certainly struggle to keep up now.


    ¡°Substrate exertion readings?¡±


    ¡°40% channel capacity,¡± answered a man at a computer terminal.


    ¡°Far better than I¡¯d have imagined¡ªpush to 6.5 meters per second.¡±


    The machine¡¯s base rattled as it whipped its belt by at dizzying speed. This was no longer a mere run¡­ this was a sprint. Dr. Brandie watched in amazement as Brett released the handles, his arms tucking in and pumping with each footfall. A sheen of sweet blossomed across his body. His footfalls thundered in the quiet laboratory. He was racing for Olympic¡ªno, medical¡ªgold, and it seemed he had so much more¡ª


    ¡°Ma¡¯am, isn¡¯t that enough to prove his mobility?¡± asked the woman again, interrupting Dr. Brandie¡¯s wandering thoughts.


    ¡°If he wanted to stop, he¡¯d¡ª¡± Dr. Brandie¡¯s eyes widened. He¡¯d tell us, she had been about to say, but non-vocal Brett could hardly point to a communication board while sprinting.


    ¡°Right, yes. Of course. Stop the test.¡±


    The humming of the engine cycled down. Brett gripped to the handles as the frantic sprinting pace downgraded to spirited running to brisk jogging to steady walking and then, at long last, stillness. His breathing was shallow, and his heartrate readings were nearing the red zone.


    ¡°Push to media outlets that patient John Doe¡¯s peak running speed was 15 miles per hour,¡± Dr. Brandie said to her communications manager. Only then did she think to grab the foamboard and approach her star runner.


    ¡°I can see your eyes are wide¡­ you¡¯re as impressed as we are, aren¡¯t you?¡± She proffered the board, and Brett tapped the Yes oval. His finger left a small damp trail as it slid towards the Thank You oval.


    ¡°Are you alright?¡±


    Yes, Brett tapped. Good. From the final word, his arm fell loosely, exhaustion evident.


    ¡°Given what your life was like only a month ago, I¡¯d bet you never expected you¡¯d be sprinting today, or perhaps ever again. Has the KSE been everything you wanted it to be?¡±


    Dr. Brandie smiled warmly as Brett tapped the Yes oval, followed by Tired.


    ¡°Of course,¡± she said, giving Brett a gentle clap on the shoulder. ¡°We¡¯ll give you a half-hour to rest before bothering with the balance beam and soccer ball. For now, Manny over there will get you an iced drink of your choice... doctor¡¯s orders.¡±


    He walked in the indicated direction to find Manny, and as he did, Dr. Brandie watched his posture, his bearing. Already, his legs and muscles carried him as though he hadn¡¯t been sprinting. There was no trembling, no lagging. His breathing and heartrate would need to recover, but his endoskeleton and new musculature was entirely unperturbed, was ready to sprint immediately again should he have willed it.


    Last, her eyes traced to the top of Brett¡¯s back, where she noted a small blossom of red dabbing Brett¡¯s hospital gown. His sprint must have torn at his stitches, she reasoned. That part didn¡¯t need to make it into the press release.


    Mom, this trial was for you, Dr. Brandie thought. For everyone who thought what the nerves lost was lost for good, let today¡¯s run prove you wrong. No more kids left alone in the world, no more loved ones wasting away in wheelchairs¡­


    Her mind was once again wandering her Pennsylvania childhood home, traipsing after mom¡¯s stumbling footsteps, imagining the way mom¡¯s face would¡¯ve lit up if then-eight-year-old Laura had given mom the gift of walking again.


    ¡°Oh, Laura, it¡¯s a wonderful thing you¡¯ve done,¡± she imagined her mom saying, in that always-formal way she had. ¡°A truly wonderful thing you¡¯ve done.¡±


    Dr. Brandie¡¯s hand closed to a fist in her lab-coat pocket, pulling out the small hand-held recorder. ¡°Locomotion test: success,¡± she intoned, eyes wet, but not quite crying. She was a professional in her laboratory, and such positions required emotional control. With a tone as flat as her mother¡¯s once had been, after the illness had stolen all vocal affect and joy from her voice, Dr. Brandie finished her trial log: ¡°Sustained sprinting speed of 6.5 meters per second achieved; plan to push for faster running in future trials.¡±

 Five

    Doctors and nurses arranged themselves side-by-side, forming dual lines that flanked the doorway. The medical staff all stood with straight-backed pride, chins held high. The only among them who didn¡¯t stand ramrod straight was Alexandra Harmon, hunched as she was over the knobbed head of her cane. She alone stood between the two rows of medical personnel, her feet positioned on the threshold of the currently-deactivated automatic door.


    In front of her was the medical complex, the doctors, the beeping machines that kept vigil over the sleeping; behind her was the stale breeze of an idle day, the twittering of single bird, the distant roar of a lawn mower¡ªthe life that always waited just beyond the hospital windows. The lines of men and women and Alexandra herself held in expectant silence, a pregnant stillness. All eyes were glued to the metal portal at the far end of the lobby.


    With a ding!, the doors slid smoothly open. And there, with two attendants at his back for support he did not need, Brett Harmon stepped smoothly out of the elevator carriage. Cheering erupted from the lines of doctors and nurses as he advanced with smooth, measured steps. His arms swung naturally as he strode. His posture was upright, proud, and at-ease. Only two things about him betrayed the image of perfect health: the first was that he wore a smaller version of his communication board around his neck; the second was his unmoving face, but it was fixed in a comfortable expression, like that of a man reclining on a couch after a hard day of work.


    As he continued past the lined-up medical staff, some reached out to touch his arms; some clapped him on the back with warmth. An elderly nurse leaned in to exchange awed glances with her work confidant, a neurosurgeon from down the hall. The nurse was still unable to believe that this was the man whose bedpan she¡¯d been changing mere weeks ago, the man who needed to be sponge-bathed and rotated to avoid bed sores.


    As Brett walked past the old nurse, she touched at the rosary around her neck, her free hand making the sign of the cross. ¡°A miracle,¡± she whispered, hardly able to believe the words herself, for such was meant to be the provenance of the divine alone.


    ¡°When Jesus cured the crippled man, did he, too, send a bill for 3.2 million dollars?¡± asked the neurosurgeon.


    ¡°Perhaps Jesus never understood the market value of his services,¡± answered a third voice from beside the pair. Neither had to turn to recognize the voice of Dr. Brandie, here to see off her first patient. The pair fell into an embarrassed silence as Brett finished his walk down the aisle, stopping before the doorway.


    At the threshold, mother and son stared at each other for ten seconds. Alexandra Harmon¡¯s eyes took it all in: here, somehow, was standing the boy who would ¡°never walk again.¡± Her eyes watered as everything she saw clashed with everything she¡¯d once known, limitations she¡¯d come to believe permanent, immutable, and hopeless. The attending staff hushed to expectant silence, as though to listen in, but there were no words exchanged: Brett could not speak, and Alexandra could find no words to express the gratitude and amazement she felt. She saw his eyes water, too, and a tear trickled down his cheek, followed by a second and a third.


    Alexandra sobbed as she buried her head onto his shoulder in a smothering embrace. As she hugged him and wept, her cane clattered to the floor, but she paid it no mind, leaning on her son for support. And after the hug had run its course¡ªafter Alexandra¡¯s eyes seemed to cry all the tears they could muster¡ªshe pulled back, gratefully accepting the cane offered by Dr. Brandie herself.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go home, Brett,¡± she said, and she laughed in delight at the simple joy of watching Brett nod his head in assent. As they walked, side-by-side, towards the minivan parked in the handicap space, Brett kept the perfect pace alongside Alexandra¡¯s shambling, cane-aided steps. When they reached the car, Brett walked to the driver¡¯s side and courteously opened it for her, gesturing inside with arms that the doctors had said would waste away with disuse.


    ¡°Still ever the gentleman,¡± Alexandra said with a sniffle, sidling into the car.


    The radio played softly as they drove. Alexandra tried to fill the air with idle chatter, to make the drive feel less weighty, as treating it as something special seemed to acknowledge all that Brett had lost. Here was no cripple at long last returning to the life he¡¯d lost for years¡­ she would pretend that here was merely a mother driving with her boy, and so she passed the time with domestic concerns that might fit the pair.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make spaghetti for dinner tonight¡ªstill your favorite, yeah?¡±


    She looked at Brett, and his eyes were dewy and wide, overwhelmed.


    ¡°Right, sorry¡ªafter so many years stuck in a bed, the highway must be¡­ a lot to you. Maybe too much motion and speed. That¡¯s okay, we¡¯ll take things a day at a time. I¡¯ll exit here, and we¡¯ll take the quieter roads home.¡±


    Brett nodded, and Alexandra steered her way over to the promised exit. In minutes, they were ambling their way down sleepy, countryside roads, Brett¡¯s eyes glued to the scenes beyond his window.


    ¡°Sure beats the same old tired forest every day, doesn¡¯t it?¡± she asked. ¡°You must¡¯ve been itching for a new view.¡±


    His head twitched¡ªperhaps his equivalent of being lost for words.


    The landmarks they passed¡ªthe buildings, the billboards, the lake with the crooked shack on its shores¡ªthese were familiar to Alexandra, as she drove past them every day to visit Brett. But now, as she closed the final miles to home, new landmarks appeared, and these ones would have been familiar to Brett as well. At the plaza to the car¡¯s right was the pizza parlor that Brett had once loved, the one with live accordion music every Wednesday night; just past the overpass was the movie theater, the one with the tacky Greek-temple theme; straight ahead was Rose Hill Park, the place where Brett had played so often as a child.


    ¡°It¡¯s such a beautiful day, Brett¡­ would you want to stop by Rose Hill? We can wander the park, you and I, and just take a minute to take it all in. There¡¯s no rush to start dinner.¡±


    Brett¡¯s head bobbed.


    Minutes later, the pair of them walked through ankle-high grass among the chirping of crickets and songbirds. The plants seemed to breathe as the wind swept through them. Alexandra¡¯s cane pressed into damp soil, setting insects scurrying away. She took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling renewed by the earthy scents of life, and though Brett couldn¡¯t speak, she hoped he felt it, too.


    A soccer ball rolled to a stop near Alexandra¡¯s feet. She and Brett turned to see a group of giggling children running towards them, their lead pointing towards Brett.


    ¡°Hey mister¡ªcan you kick that back our way?¡±


    With a winding up, Brett¡¯s foot struck soccer ball in a spirited kick. The ball flew through the air until the wind caught it, and the laughing children ran after it to intercept, falling back into their impromptu soccer match. It was a moment that struck a deep chord for Alexandra, as Brett himself used to play little league soccer at the fields on the west side of the hill.


    ¡°You ever expect to be kicking a soccer ball again?¡± She asked, feeling recharged by the glee of the running kids.


    She turned to Brett, surprised to see that he was crying again. Sure, he¡¯d been able to walk for these past few weeks, and the novelty of the new mobility might have worn off by now¡­ but today was the first day he could live again, and Alexandra offered a comforting squeeze of the hand as he processed.


    ¡°There, there,¡± she said, guiding him to take a seat with her at the base of a gnarled oak tree, ¡°just take some time to let it all settle. We¡¯ve got all the time in the world.¡±

 Six

    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to be the keynote speaker at this year¡¯s National Symposium for Neuromuscular Studies. What an incredible collection of minds I see before me; what an incredible group of people this NSNS is, united with a single purpose¡­ to cure the most crippling of humankind¡¯s ailments. For those who don¡¯t know me¡ª¡±


    Mild chuckling sounded from the conference hall¡¯s audience.


    ¡°¡ªor for those who haven¡¯t turned on a TV in the past three months, listening to the reporters excitedly relaying every successful trial of the KSE¡ª¡±


    At that, another wave of chuckling sounded, and the speaker waited with a patient smile for it to die down before continuing.


    ¡°¡ªmy name is Dr. Laura Brandie. My team and I devised a brand-new type of treatment for nerve disorders: a full endoskeleton powered by a semi-autonomous network of nanobots, directed by the brain. The KSE itself represents the wedding of several emerging fields of medicine: new bio-neutral, titanium-based alloys for the injected substrate; state-of-the-art swarm controllers for synchronized cooperation among individual Iota, the tiny units that make up our substrate; advances in neural networks and AI-adjacent technologies that enable our Nexus brain-to-computer interface, allowing our system to read a patient¡¯s thoughts and translate intent into action; and lastly, a mastery of immune-attenuating drugs, giving us unprecedented access to the body¡¯s systems.


    ¡°I myself had no background in any of those things¡­ Six years ago, I was a humble neuroscientist who struggled to configure an Outlook email inbox¡ªmade my lab switch to text messaging, and I¡¯m not ashamed to admit it.¡±


    Even louder laughs sounded this time. If there was one thing she¡¯d learned over the past few months of pressers and interviews, it was how to play an audience, and this one was like putty in her hands. As the laughing died down, Dr. Brandie felt the phone in her bag begin to buzz; she made a mental note to check it when she was finished.


    ¡°So how did a tech-illiterate philistine like me end up at the head of technology¡¯s most recent breakthrough? It was a conference like this one, a chance for the brightest and best from every sub-field of medicine to present their discoveries to their peers¡ªa chance for ideas to glom together like atoms to form molecules¡­ for individual projects to form miracles.¡±


    The crowd applauded with renewed enthusiasm, a few even daring to whistle and cheer aloud. Scientists were not known to be a rowdy bunch, but this group impressed Dr. Brandie with its enthusiasm, with its pure admiration that seemed to radiate outwards in waves. Dr. Brandie knew that she was respected in her industry¡ªthe campaign to nominate her for the Nobel Prize had truly been more a tidal wave¡ªbut still, this audible and visible affirmation warmed her heart.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°My own mother¡ª¡±


    Again, Dr. Brandie¡¯s phone set to vibrating, derailing her train of thought. She reached into her bag and muted the thing before continuing.


    ¡°My own mother was about my age when the first signs of ALS reared their head. Her decline was swift and all-encompassing. From altered gait, to stumbling, to loss of mobility, to loss of speech, to death¡ªall in far too few years.


    There was a rising murmur from the crowd as listeners expressed their surprise to hear it; it was a fact that Doctor Brandie rarely shared in her professional life.


    ¡°And yes, as some of you may know¡ªas I¡¯m the child of someone with familial ALS, I have a roughly 50% chance of developing the condition myself. As I¡¯m that same age as my mother, I wake some mornings with dread that today will be the day I feel the tingling in the limbs, the loosening of coordination, the beginning of my end. And yet, despite that very real fear, it wasn¡¯t self-preservation that drove me to pilot the KSE. Living with the sword of Damocles over your head, you make your peace with that sort of thing early enough. No, the reason I was most driven to pilot the KSE was so that no little girls need to spend their tenth birthdays at a funeral¡­ the reason I pushed for research grants and expedited approval was so that no families need waste away in hospital waiting rooms, comforting loved ones with no clear path to restored quality of life.¡±


    Dr. Brandie paused, letting the weight of her words settle. The audience¡¯s good moods had largely broken, but she wielded that gloom deftly, like a scalpel in a master surgeon¡¯s hand. Now was the time to transmute that sorrow into pride¡ªto rile the audience up, to inspire:


    ¡°By our collective efforts, we¡¯ve helped to give so much back to those who have lost nearly everything¡­ bodily autonomy is one of the most basic precursors to happiness, to independence, to inner peace. This is a work so much larger than any one of us¡ªa work only possible thanks to every one of us. I¡¯m eternally grateful for the research, support, and unending work of the team at my back that all made the KSE possible¡­ and my heart is continually warmed to hear of all the exceptional progress made by my peers in their myriad projects and studies. We¡¯ve accomplished so much, and given our current lofty aims, I have every confidence we¡¯ll soon accomplish even more.¡±


    The crowd broke out into applause and cheering once again; people loved to clap to honor themselves. And as the cheering built to proud crescendo, Dr. Brandie snuck a glance at her phone screen, frowning at the text messages that arrived just a minute earlier.


    ALEXANDRA HARMON, 11:06 A.M.


    been trying to reach you for the past week but you wont return my calls.


    ALEXANDRA HARMON, 11:06 A.M.


    SOS, call me ASAP


    ALEXANDRA HARMON, 11:06 A.M.


    please, or I might have to reach to press instead

 Seven

    ¡°Hello there, Brett¡­ it seems these months at home have been good for you. How are you doing?¡±


    Dr. Brandie sat herself down at the kitchen table of the Harmon home. Brett sat across with casual posture, communication board splayed out amid the Harmons¡¯ half-eaten breakfasts.


    Good, Brett tapped, spooning another mouthful of oatmeal into his mouth. As he ate, his eyes were locked to Dr. Brandie¡¯s. With his face¡¯s lack of expressiveness, it was somewhat unsettling, but Laura tried to not let it bother her.


    ¡°And how are your signs coming along?¡±


    Better every day, he signed.


    ¡°Better every day,¡± Alexandra translated.


    ¡°I learned ASL when I was young,¡± Dr. Brandie said. ¡°I¡¯ve forgotten a fair bit by now¡­ I suspect you and Brett could already out-sign me, but I can comprehend more than I can sign. Brett, you can speak to me in signs if you find that easier than tapping the board.¡±


    Brett nodded, taking another bite of oatmeal.


    ¡°Now, Brett, your mother expressed some concerns about you lately. Are you feeling yourself?¡±


    Yes, Brett signed.


    ¡°How¡¯s your oatmeal, Bee?¡±


    Delicious, Brett signed.


    ¡°Do you mind if I do a couple quick tests here, Brett?¡± asked Dr. Brandie, moving to the seat next to him.


    Sure, Brett signed.


    Dr. Brandie removed a small light from her pocket and clicked it active. ¡°Keep your eyes locked to my nose¡ªdon¡¯t look at the light. Gonna check your pupils here, okay?¡±


    Dr. Brandie shone the light into his left eye and right, watching the way that the unlit pupil contracted in sync with the lit one. His eyes were wide and trembling with concentration as she worked¡ªmaybe tests like these were still a mental strain for Brett¡ªbut the pupillary contraction seemed totally normal.


    ¡°Very good. Keep looking at my eyes. I¡¯m going to move my hand around in-between our faces. I want you to use your right hand to touch my hand, and then your nose, and then back to my hand, and then back to your nose. Try to keep doing that as I move my hand around.¡±


    Brett did as she asked, his hand moving smoothly back and forth between Laura¡¯s moving hand and his own nose.


    ¡°That was perfect. Just two more questions: if you know your ASL letters, can you sign-spell the current day of the week?¡±


    S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y, he signed.


    ¡°Perfect. And lastly, can you do your name for me?¡±


    B-R-E-T-T-H-A-R-M-O-N.


    ¡°Very good,¡± she said, wearing a clinician-perfect smile. ¡°All in order.¡±


    ¡°Brett, dear, I know we were supposed to go get groceries today, but it¡¯s really just the milk and eggs we need right away¡ªwould you mind walking to the corner shop and buying them? You can take my card; I¡¯d just like a few minutes to chat with the doctor here.¡±


    Sure, Brett signed, gathering himself up and heading for the front door. He swung the door shut behind him, and then, much to Dr. Brandie¡¯s immediate clinical interest, she heard the sound of a key slotting into the lock, and the deadbolt was engaged.


    ¡°Fine motor skills are progressing quite quickly¡ªnot to mention the stiff, if nearly fluent signing.¡±


    Alexandra didn¡¯t respond. A sudden and thick silence fell across the sleepy kitchen, motes of dust drifting heavily through beams of sunlight. It was, by all accounts, an idyllic breakfast scene, and Dr. Brandie allowed herself to be moved by that sense of calm. With a crack that made both women nearly jump, the toaster flung its browned slice of bread upwards, and Alexandra rose with her cane to retrieve it.


    As she stood, her eyes were glued to the distant door, watching Brett¡¯s silhouette disappear through the windows. Only once Brett was far enough away did Alexandra dare to speak her concerns aloud.


    ¡°Something is terribly wrong with my Brett,¡± she said, transferring the toast to a small, blue plate.


    Dr. Brandie knitted her hands together on the table, regarding her frankly.


    ¡°So you intimated on the phone, but he seemed entirely fine just now. It looked like I walked into any family kitchen, finding a mother and son enjoying a lazy weekend morning.¡±This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s my Brett,¡± Alexandra managed, voice suddenly very small. She sat down heavily at the table¡ªnearly collapsed into her chair¡ªand stared at her toast. Her hands never reached for the jam.


    ¡°I beg your pardon?¡±


    ¡°It looks like him, moves like him, but that¡¯s no Brett,¡± she said, nearly choking out the words.


    Dr. Brandie¡¯s mouth opened as though to speak, but then she closed it again. Paranoid delusions, she thought. An impostor or replacement is common enough imagery, and¡ª


    ¡°I know you must think I¡¯m crazy just for saying that,¡± Alexandra hedged, ¡°but a mother always knows.¡±


    Dr. Brandie set her lips in a line. ¡°Then please, ma¡¯am, explain your fears.¡±


    ¡°Brett hates, hates oatmeal,¡± she said. ¡°Always did. Yet you just saw him, right now, eating the stuff up and calling it ¡®delicious.¡¯¡±


    Dr. Brandie felt a minor flush of relief¡­ she¡¯d been momentarily wondering if the mother¡¯s concerns might have had some merit, but here was something perfectly explainable: ¡°Preferences can and often do change in the wake of traumatic experience. Many patients, on the other side of a near-death experience, suddenly find that their personal vendetta against oatmeal feels a little silly, and suddenly they find new reasons to¡ª¡±


    ¡°He sleeps on the wrong side of his bed.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by that?¡±


    ¡°Ever since he was little, Brett would always tuck himself in on the right side of his bed, snugly up against the wall¡­ now, he lies directly in the center.¡±


    Dr. Brandie nodded, finding her rhythm back in the role of medical expert. Here, too, was a perfectly explainable phenomenon: ¡°Don¡¯t forget that, for years, your son has been in a hospital bed¡ªkept in the center of that bed, mind you, as is SOP. As strange as it may seem to hear, that hospital room is what¡¯s comfortable and familiar to him, not this home¡­ it¡¯s likely a comfort-seeking gesture, a way to reclaim some normalcy in a world that¡¯s suddenly¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then there¡¯s the look in his eyes,¡± Alexandra said, her own eyes flickering as she searched painful memories. ¡°Moms and kids, we¡¯ve got a type of mind-reading that only a parent can understand¡­ you take one look, and you know what¡¯s going on under the surface. Do you have kids, Doctor Brandie?¡±


    She shook her head¡­ amid lectures and late lab nights, things like dating, marriage, and partnership had all fallen to the wayside.


    ¡°If you did, you¡¯d understand. The first couple weeks, I thought that maybe it was the stress of the new environment, the overwhelming newness of the world around him¡­ did you know he cried almost every day for the first month? I thought it tears of joy at first, but the eyes were too heavy. And then, after that month, the weeping stopped¡­ and I know his face doesn¡¯t move, but you can read it in the expression: the look he carries is resigned, it¡¯s¡­ dejected, it¡¯s pleading.¡±


    Dr. Brandie paused to compose her diagnosis and recommendations. The emerging clinical picture was clear enough: ¡°Please understand, this is as dramatic a change for your life as it is for Brett¡¯s,¡± she said as diplomatically as possible. ¡°And it¡¯s doing Brett no disservice to acknowledge that fact, to admit to ourselves that all of this change affects you almost as much as it affects him. When people are confronted with such a break from the norm, the mind can react in strange ways¡ªit can start to believe things that aren¡¯t true and make up strange stories about the ones that we love. I can tell you¡¯re very stressed about Brett¡¯s wellbeing¡ªthis has got to be like having a child all over again. I can refer you to a brilliant psychologist you could chat with¡ªa colleague of mine, Dr. Elyse Schwa¡ª"


    ¡°You¡¯re not hearing me; I don¡¯t need a damn shrink, doc. This isn¡¯t about me, it¡¯s Brett!¡±


    ¡°Your own stress might blind you to the fact that this is about you, ma¡¯am, and the way¡ª¡±


    Alexandra scoffed. ¡°Me, the blind one? Your own pride¡¯s got you blind to the possibility that maybe this KSE could be anything less than perfect.¡±


    Dr. Brandie was indignant, cheeks flushed red, but she let the mother have her say, rather than arguing as a guest in her home.


    ¡°The Brett that I signed up for your trial, the Brett who stopped answering questions, that was a Brett whose eyes carried the look of a man who wanted to die. I was out of options¡­¡± Alexandra¡¯s voice broke, and, after a few moments of searching, she found the words to continue. ¡°Now that look is back, and it¡¯s deeper than ever before¡­ he wore it right this morning, eating the oatmeal at this table, like he despised the fact that he was doing it. Can you imagine the horror of that, doc? You somehow lose control of your body¡­ it¡¯s acting entirely on its own¡­ and when someone asks you if everything¡¯s okay, your traitorous hand gives them a thumbs-up, saying ¡®yeah, it¡¯s all a-fuckin-ok?¡¯ Can you imagine what that loss of control would feel like?¡±


    Dr. Brandie examined that idea with mute curiosity, but she didn¡¯t allow it to move her. The field of medicine was an endless parade of maladies, pain, death, and sorrow; every cured patient was replaced by someone as miserable and broken as the first had been. To empathize with those patients was to subject oneself to that misery forever, and nobody could bear those burdens for long. And so, to insulate herself from that pain, Dr. Brandie maintained an empathetic wall in her mind, blocking her from feeling the terror the woman described. After her first brush with ALS had destroyed her, sending a child to failing grades in school, to so many black years of ringing emptiness, how could Dr. Brandie do anything else?


    ¡°You need to speak with Dr. Schwartz,¡± she said at last, banishing the thought of a man prisoner in a body he didn¡¯t control. ¡°I¡¯ll leave you her card¡ª¡±


    ¡°An fMRI, or I speak with the press,¡± Alexandra said, eyes fixed to her uneaten toast. ¡°If you won¡¯t hear me, maybe they will.¡±


    Dr. Brandie swallowed. Although the specific finalists were secret, she knew it likely that she was under heavy consideration for the Nobel Prize, and negative press like Alexandra¡¯s claims could have it all undone.


    ¡°Let¡¯s not¡ª¡° she began, but Alexandra cut her off.


    ¡°I¡¯m serious. I won¡¯t have my worries shrugged off. A mother knows.¡±


    Dr. Brandie nodded her head curtly. ¡°A trade, then,¡± she acceded. ¡°You speak to Dr. Schwartz, and we¡¯ll give Brett a follow-up scan. Does that sound fair?¡±


    Alexandra¡¯s eyes never moved from the toast¡­ she raised her chin in hollow agreement, corners of her mouth twitching downwards. ¡°The store Brett went to was literally a half-minute walk¡­ he could be coming back soon. I¡¯d like you gone before he does, and I expect a call by this afternoon about scheduling a scan.¡±


    ¡°What time do you¡ª¡±


    ¡°The soonest you¡¯ve got¡ªany time, doc. There ain¡¯t a God-damn thing I wouldn¡¯t move for this.¡±

 Eight

    ¡°You know I won¡¯t break confidentiality,¡± said the voice on the phone.


    ¡°I¡¯m not asking you to, Elyse,¡± said Dr. Brandie, pouring herself another glass of whisky. The ice clinked softly in the chilled glass, but beyond its gentle tickling, the dark oak study was otherwise silent.


    ¡°You were asking after details of a new client¡ªno matter how well-intentioned you might have been, that¡¯s just something I can¡¯t do in any circumstances.¡±


    ¡°I know; fine, very honest and admirable of you. Your professional integrity shines. Just please, then, can you make an earnest effort to reel her in? To make sure that she doesn¡¯t go to the press with that kind of crazy talk?¡±


    ¡°What I advise professionally is also something I can¡¯t be influenced in,¡± Elyse said levelly. I¡¯m happy to talk with you about your side¡ªwhat you know, what you think, what you feel. It¡¯s the least I could do for my old roomie. But what happens between me and my patient, in a professional setting? That¡¯s a step too far, Laura. I¡¯m sorry, but it¡¯s a step too far.¡±


    Dr. Brandie took a deep draw from her whiskey glass. A vintage so fine was meant to be sipped slowly, but the splashing mouthful she took was more like a shot. She swallowed, winced, and wiped her lips with her arm before noting that Elyse was waiting for her to speak.


    ¡°Fine. You want to know what I feel? I¡¯m scared, El. Scared that it¡¯ll all come undone. I can empathize with her¡ªI see how much she loves her son¡ªand I¡¯m afraid that her worry might point the wrong way, turn the world against the KSE. If the funding retreats, the project¡¯s collapsed. You can¡¯t do this type of research without institutional backing, and big money investors loathe bad press. It¡¯ll all¡­ dry up.¡±


    ¡°Those are all natural things to fear, Laura, but you and I have talked at-length about stressing over things we can¡¯t control. At a certain point, we have to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Let go of the damn steering wheel, I remember the line. Heaven knows how many times you¡¯ve told me that¡ªhow many times I¡¯ve tried.¡±


    ¡°I noticed in your list of things you fear, you missed the most important.¡± Elyse¡ªno, Dr. Schwartz right now¡ªwaited for Laura to fill the silence.


    ¡°My mom¡¯s, well,¡± Laura said, voice breaking. She took another sip of whiskey and counted to three, reasserting calm. ¡°Her illness¡­ I¡¯m not out of the woods, El. Fifty-fifty chance I¡¯ve got it, too. If the KSE collapses, I collapse with it. It¡¯s my only lifeline, my seatbelt. I can¡¯t¡ªno, won¡¯t¡ªwither away in a chair like she did. It¡¯s not the ruining of my Nobel consideration that¡¯s kept me up these past few nights, not the worries of professional shaming¡­ if I¡¯m being honest with myself, maybe for the first time¡­ becoming what she became, more than anything¡­ that¡¯s what I fear the most.¡±The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Dr. Schwartz was silent, considering. At long last, she spoke: ¡°As we¡¯re friends, Laura, and I¡¯m not your psychologist, I feel comfortable being frank and blunt with you. Your answer was valid¡ªI can empathize with your fears. But when I told you that you missed the ¡®most important¡¯ one, that wasn¡¯t what I was referring to: you haven¡¯t even acknowledged the possibility that what Alexandra is saying is true. There¡¯s the possibility that someone is going through the worse violation of bodily autonomy imaginable¡ªtrapped in a nightmare¡ªand that doesn¡¯t even make the list of fears amid losing funding. Can you imagine the agony that might represent to Brett?¡±


    Laura scoffed, disbelieving. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re on her side?¡± she balked, voice suddenly sharp.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t a petty debate, a matter of sides, Laura. I more than understand your personal connection to this project¡ªwhat it means for even your own health¡ªbut even just over the course of this call, I¡¯ve seen your target-fixation on those fears blind you to the possibility that your project has harmed others. It¡¯s like the possibility isn¡¯t even registering. It¡¯s like you¡¯re so emotionally dependent on this project succeeding that any information to the contrary is rejected, ignored, pushed out of mind.¡±


    Laura was stunned. ¡°You¡¯re out of your depth, El. What Alexandra fears is impossible. It¡¯d be like fearing your calculator has taken over your computer. It¡¯s just not programmed that way¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be reductionist, Laura. I read your whole paper¡ªprobably your magnum opus, to be honest¡ªbut a Kinetic ¡®Semi-autonomous¡¯ Endoskeleton is not just a calculator. It¡¯s a thinking machine¡­ an independent entity, almost like a symbiont. You know better than I do that it has deep access to the brain¡ªthat it assesses information, reads input signals, and makes decisions. Maybe something malfunctioned; maybe it¡¯s an issue of alignment. You¡¯ve bound it to the wellbeing of the body, and to respect the commands of the mind, but what happens if it comes to believe the wellbeing of the body involves ignoring commands of the mind?¡±


    ¡°All things we pre-considered and programmed answers to, El. Do you not hear how presumptuous it sounds to lecture me about the shortcomings of my project, after doing nothing but reading the published papers? Does that make you the expert over me?¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t about expertise, Laura¡­ it¡¯s about humanity, and having compassion for someone who might be in pain.¡±


    ¡°Someone who physically cannot be in the pain you describe, as it¡¯s scientifically impossible. The KSE is aligned, limited, and stable.


    ¡°For Brett¡¯s sake, more than yours, I hope that¡¯s true.¡±


    Silence fell, driving a wedge between the two, and Laura decided she would not be the one to break it.


    Elyse finally spoke up: ¡°I can hear the wall in your voice¡­ I¡¯ve plucked a nerve, and I¡¯m sorry if I¡¯ve overstepped. I know the scan is tomorrow, so¡ª¡±


    ¡°Betraying patient information now, are we?¡± Laura asked, immediately regretting the pettiness in her own tone.


    ¡°A lapse, I guess. Believe it or not, Laura, I can make mistakes sometimes. We all could benefit from reminding ourselves of that every now and again.¡±


    Laura ignored the pointed remark.


    ¡°Just keep me appraised to the scan¡¯s findings, yeah?¡±


    Laura sighed deeply, swallowing the rest of her whiskey. ¡°Yeah, El. I¡¯m sorry¡ªI know you mean well. We¡¯ll speak tomorrow, then.¡±


    She hung up. She set her cell phone down gingerly beside the water rings left by her whiskey glass. With a frown, she reached for a napkin, patting them away.


    Then, with a scowl fixed to her face like a ratty sweater, she leaned back in her plush leather chair to stare at the empty walls, watching the clock count the miserable hours of the evening away.


    The room swayed, but the alcohol had not yet kicked in.

 Nine

    The sun presided proudly over the Carlile Medical Complex, shining gently amid whipped-cream-dollop clouds and an earth-scented breeze. Dr. Brandie stood in the hospital portico immersed in her own personal storm cloud, arms crossed and foot tapping. Behind her, six members of medical staff shuffled and chatted idly.


    ¡®Any time, doc¡¯ my ass, Dr. Brandie thought, eyes glued to the road. She squirmed, shook her head, and checked her watch again.


    ¡°Any later and we might have to call the whole thing off¡­ later day appointments can¡¯t be canceled as well. To expedite, I want the lot of you to go upstairs and start prepping now. If you don¡¯t have the patient in ten minutes, you can start to pack it back up. Oh and scratch the KSE conductance test; there¡¯s no longer time. We¡¯ll keep the fMRI, full nerve assessment, cognitive tests, and Nexus software checksum. Get to it.¡±


    Dr. Brandie watched her team file away toward the elevator lobby. Once alone, she turned back to the road with a tapping foot. After four more minutes of waiting, Alexandra Harmon¡¯s minivan puttered its way into the medical complex lot.


    Dr. Brandie met them at the handicapped spot with clasped hands. ¡°Unfortunately, due to scheduling constraints, we no longer have time for one of the tests¡ªstill, if you two will follow me, we¡¯ll be able to do the rest of the work-up right away.¡±


    ¡°It was a battle convincing him to come,¡± Alexandra said, shaking her head. ¡°Once he found out where we were going this morning, he was adamant about staying home.¡±


    Don¡¯t like hospitals, Brett signed. Don¡¯t like here.


    Dr. Brandie felt a stirring of sympathy. ¡°The Carlile Medical Complex is likely host to plenty of bad memories for Brett¡­ beyond that floor-to-ceiling view of the woods, there¡¯s likely little he could remember fondly¡ªexcepting your persistent company, of course.¡±


    By now, Alexandra had retrieved her walking cane, and the trio set off towards the hospital entrance. As they walked to match the older woman¡¯s slower pace, Dr. Brandie turned to appraise Brett¡¯s gait and bearing¡­ the two locked eyes, and Dr. Brandie could see pleading in that look, enough to set out ripples of goosebumps.


    Don¡¯t let my mom take away this gift, that look seemed to say. Don¡¯t let her send me back to the bed.


    She tried her best to offer a reassuring smile. Her fingers clumsily signed all will work out OK.


    The doors slid open in greeting. Alexandra¡¯s cane clicked loudly against the solid linoleum floors, echoing down the empty hallways over the softly playing lobby music that droned from tinny speakers. Dr. Brandie summoned the elevator, and, in seconds, it beeped as its doors slid lazily open.


    In moments, the carriage lurched upwards, spiriting the trio deeper into the complex. As the elevator hummed, Alexandra Harmon looked gravely to Dr. Brandie.


    ¡°If anything is amiss with these tests¡ªif there¡¯s anything wrong with my Brett¡ªcan it be reversed?¡±


    ¡°¡­reversed?¡± Dr. Brandie asked, not quite sure if she¡¯d heard properly.


    ¡°Can you take it back out?¡± she asked. Dr. Brandie opened her mouth, shut it again. Such an idea was preposterous to her¡­ who would want to re-cripple the handicapped?


    ¡°Brett, would you want to take the KSE back out?¡± Dr. Brandie asked, which set off an immediate, emphatic head-shaking from Brett. No, the gesture said, loud and clear. A single tear slid down Brett¡¯s cheek. Just the thought of returning to paralysis terrorizes him, Dr. Brandie thought, and understandably so.


    The elevator shuddered and lurched to a painful stop as Alexandra pulled the emergency stop toggle.


    ¡°I said: can it be undone?¡± Alexandra asked, her intense gaze boring into Dr. Brandie like sunlight to ice. Dr. Brandie felt compelled to shift on her feet.


    ¡°No¡ªwell, yes, but you saw yourself: Brett doesn¡¯t want it undone.¡±


    ¡°The state appointed me medical decisionmaker for Brett, a right I still hold. It¡¯s my decision, not yours.¡±


    Dr. Brandie was flabbergasted. ¡°You would send him back to paralysis¡ªto confinement¡ªfor what? Paranoia? I won¡¯t let you¡ªI¡¯ll argue in favor of Brett¡¯s competence. Submit a report with the state board to have his rights reinstated.¡±Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°You do that and I¡¯ll go to the press,¡± Alexandra said, stabbing the elevator¡¯s floor with the head of her cane. Her own face was streaked with tears to match Brett¡¯s now. ¡°No more games, no more maneuvering my boy like he¡¯s some game piece on a board to play against Nobel committees and project funders. He¡¯s a person, God damn it, and he may not be in control of his own body. He may be suffering! Does that mean nothing to you?¡±


    ¡°A person suffering from paralysis means everything to me,¡± Dr. Brandie cracked. It was mom all over again¡­ here was a young man who would be reduced to immobility, and it felt more and more like there was nothing she could do to stop it.


    But then to her mind came the one thing she could say to defuse this woman¡¯s fears. She could stake her confidence in the KSE, humoring Ms. Harmon¡¯s fears and ensuring Brett¡¯s mobility all at once:


    ¡°We¡¯ll do the tests,¡± she said, knowing that they would all come back clear with the same certainty that she knew her own name, ¡°and if anything¡¯s amiss, we¡¯ll take out the KSE. You have my word. If I renege, go to the press, tell them everything. On the flip side, if everything checks out as it¡¯s supposed to, the KSE stays, and Brett keeps his quality of life. Agreed?¡±


    Dr. Brandie reached out her hand for Alexandra to shake, but the old woman merely reached for the elevator stop switch and pressed it back in, setting the carriage back in motion. ¡°Agreed.¡±


    Dr. Brandie turned towards Brett, noting the fresh series of tears that trailed down his cheeks¡­ his was a look of relief.


    Relieved that he won¡¯t be losing his mobility so soon after regaining it, Dr. Brandie thought. Relieved that his mother won¡¯t take this gift away.


    The elevator dinged its arrival to the selected floor, and the doors began their slide open on squeaking tracks.


    ¡°Down this hall,¡± Dr. Brandie began, ¡°we¡¯ll find the fMRI room. A quick scan there should get us deep insight to Brett¡¯s state of mind, making crystal clear that he feels the way he says he¡ª¡±


    Dr. Brandie was nearly knocked from her feet as a scrambling Brett took to the hall in a frenetic blur.


    ¡°Hey!¡± Alexandra Harmon called, but Brett¡¯s mad sprint never slowed.


    ¡°You threaten to take the boys legs away, and of course he would run!¡± Dr. Brandie admonished, setting out in a pursuit.


    Down the hall, doctors threw themselves out of the way of the mad runner; one lost a stack of medical reports as Brett shouldered past, the stack flitting in the breeze he left behind.


    ¡°Brett, stop before you hurt yourself!¡± Dr. Brandie called, remembering the boy¡¯s running on the treadmill¡­ this was surely far faster, far more desperate, as though he were running from a collapsing building. ¡°Brett, please, we won¡¯t take away the KSE,¡± Dr. Brandie called, but Brett still never slowed.


    The boy vanished around a corner; when Dr. Brandie finally arrived, she peered around that corner, seeing Brett standing silhouetted before a floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hall. Beyond that window was the serene forest Brett had stared at every day in his paralysis, a reminder of the life that was permanently just out of reach.


    Between Dr. Brandie and Brett, empty hospital rooms sat with doors open: dead ends with no means of escape. If Brett had been seeking stairs, a means of flight, he¡¯d chosen poorly¡ªnow four orderlies made their way to where Dr. Brandie stood, gathering at her back, forming a wall. Brett was cornered, and would be apprehended, sedated, and tested. This was no ordinary reaction, she thought. Perhaps the mother was right; perhaps there was something wrong with Brett¡¯s emotional regulation. Maybe it¡¯s a matter of¡ª


    Dr. Brandie and the orderlies gasped as Brett set himself into frantic motion once again. This run, and not the first, elicited that gasp for two reasons: there first was the way he ran, an uncoordinated, sloppy thing, his head dragging behind his body as though it did not want to follow his muscles¡¯ commands; the second reason was the direction of the sprint, for while his first run had been scrambling for escape, this second took him bearing towards the window at the far end of the hall¡­ and he ran with far too much determined speed to slow in time.


    ¡°No,¡± Dr. Brandie merely gasped, and then Brett¡¯s full-tilt sprint met window in a crunching, shattering cascade of lacerating glass and pinwheeling limbs. In a second, he was gone, and all the loose tumbling shards had vanished with him.


    Dr. Brandie crept forwards on numbed feet, ears ringing too loud to hear the shouts of alarm and panic from the staff behind her. She felt the warm gentle breeze of the outside invade the cool, sterile air of the hospital, and as she drew nearer to that broken portal of glass, she heard the twittering songbirds and the rumble of the distant lawnmower. She braced herself against the wall, and then, despite knowing it would traumatize her, she peered over the edge¡­ she simply had to know.


    It took three full seconds for what she was seeing to register. With a sob that shook her whole body, she pulled herself back, fell to the floor, and drew herself tightly into a ball. There hadn¡¯t been a body splayed out on the ground sixteen stories below¡­ for down on the sunny lawns of the Carlile Medical Complex was something far worse.


    It shambled and stumbled with a gait as ruined as Alexandra Harmon¡¯s. Its snapped neck held a head that bobbed and lobbed loosely as it walked, lifeless eyes staring at the sun, the sclera already blooming deep red with broken blood vessels. Its lacerated arms dangled limply, and blood glistened on the thing like condensation on a glass. Despite all the ruin of a sixteen-story fall, and despite the fact that a dead human host could send no signals to the Nexus, still the KSE marched its way forward, taking the upright corpse toward the forest, perhaps the only place that it thought itself safe from surgical removal.


    And whether it was the shock of her life¡¯s work falling apart or the onset of the long-dreaded nerve condition that took her mother, when Dr. Brandie finally managed to wrench the phone from her bag, she found her fingers too clumsy to even dial for the help that was already far too late.