“Come with me. Let’s have a chat,” the doctor continued.
“Both of us?”
Doctor Cartwright hesitated for a fraction of a second before pasting on a professional smile. “Just you, for now. You can relay the details when you feel comfortable.”
She followed the doctor down a short corridor, turning into a small consultation room painted a neutral shade of yellow that did little to soften its sterile atmosphere.
“Take a seat,” Doctor Cartwright instructed, filling two cups with water from a cooler before placing one in front of her. “I imagine the past few days have been overwhelming. If you need to pause at any point, just say the word.”
She settled into the chair opposite, watching as the doctor flicked through her notes. In the silence that followed, it became painfully clear just how many times this woman had delivered similar news. She carried herself with a practised composure, as though she’d rehearsed this conversation to a fine art.
“Right,” Doctor Cartwright began at last, exhaling softly. “As you know, Callan was involved in an IED explosion several days ago. He is stable and showing signs of progress, but the force of the blast caused significant trauma to his lower spine—specifically, the lumbar and sacral regions.”
She paused to take a sip of water before continuing.
“I won’t sugar-coat things; that doesn’t benefit anyone. Based on my experience, I’ll be honest with you, Mrs Thomas, the likelihood of him regaining any movement or sensation in his legs is pretty slim.”
Daisy swallowed hard, willing herself to remain composed.
“In addition,” the doctor pressed on, “he has suffered significant third-degree burns. The worst areas are his right arm, upper torso, and portions of his back. We’ve already made a start on some skin grafts, but the healing process will be long—months, perhaps years.”
She took another measured sip of water before glancing back at her notes.
“And that brings us to his neurological injuries. There’s a lot we don’t know yet, but what we do know is that he sustained a significant traumatic brain injury from the shockwave of the explosion. The force of the blast has caused what we refer to as a diffuse axonal injury, and this often results in significant cognitive impairment, which we’re already seeing in Callan. At present, we expect him to experience severe memory loss. There will likely be a lifelong struggle with both short-term and long-term recall.”
A vacant kind of dizziness washed over Daisy. If he had trouble with long-term memory, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d remember her or the life they had shared. “Will he…remember me?”
Doctor Cartwright’s gaze softened. “In previous cases with similar injuries, there has beensomerecall. We are monitoring his progress closely, but as of now, it’s impossible to predict how much of his memory he will recover.”
The words seeped into her like poison, twisting and curling through her veins. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Be kind to yourself,” the doctor replied gently. “Take things one day at a time. With rehabilitation, he will regain somefunction, though it is too early to determine how much.” She hesitated before continuing. “Though his motor skills have been affected, I am optimistic that he will regain a level of independence, but…”
“But his memories,” she whispered.
“I know this is hard to hear. But as I said before, we won’t know the full picture until the swelling reduces and we have a clearer sense of the damage.”
Daisy stared at the floor, her mind caught in a free-for-all. Callan was alive; others hadn’t been so fortunate. And yet, despite this, the worst part wasn’t the prognosis or the uncertainty of what lay ahead; it was the knowing that she couldn’t bear to face him that day.
The news had fractured her, emotionally and physically. If she stepped into his room only to be met by a stranger, she feared that a part of her might shatter beyond repair. So, she left. Without a word, without a single glance at anyone.
She couldn’t recall the weather, or the time of day; all she knew was that by the time she reached her car, the sobs had begun to spill out of her in ragged, guttural bursts—primal, wounded. And then, as though the weight of it all had become too much for her body, she opened the door and vomited.
All while their daughter slept in the backseat, completely oblivious to the life that now lay before them.
XXV
LOGAN
After a week of single-digit sleep, Logan found himself back at the campus where he’d wasted the years of his prime, there to deliver a talk on harnessing the activation of the prefrontal cortex. After stopping at the coffee cart on his way in, he wove his way through the corridors to the grand hall.
He was expecting a dozen, maybe two dozen students, but as he walked in, a sea of expectant faces stopped mid-discussion and stared up at him. Their eyes were brimming with curiosity, admiration, or, in some cases, poorly concealed boredom. He cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, and forced a smile. It had been over a week since he’d taken Daisy to the hospital, yet it felt like years.
He knew what he needed to say. It was a well-rehearsed lecture he’d delivered as a guest speaker countless times before. In front of him, he could feel eyes watching his every move, and the air was silent, broken only by the occasional shuffle of papers. Then, as he opened his mouth to speak, there was nothing. His mind went blank, and the words scattered from view.
“Fuck,” he muttered, gripping the podium with both hands.
He blinked, his mouth half-open, the pause stretching uncomfortably long. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and a woman in the front cleared her throat.
