"Vitals are holding," someone announced from beyond my limited field of vision.
“Wonderful.” I heard an odd swishing sound, a rattle of instruments, and a whirr of machinery kicking in.
I tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but my tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth now. The lights above me were too bright, making my eyes water. Or maybe those were tears of fear. Hard to tell the difference anymore.
A face with kind eyes above a pale blue mask stepped into view. He leaned over me enough that I didn’t have to strain to see him. Cloudy gray pupils, advanced wrinkles deepening as a smile sprouted, hidden by the face covering. There were so many more carved lines framing his features these days, almost as if he’d aged in direct correlation to my body failing. His hair hadfaded too, the vibrant ginger dulled. But he was here with me, and I was relieved.
Doctor Arnold Emerson—my primary physician at Brightfield ever since I moved here—was like family now; the only person who made me feel like staying alive was worth it on days when I was fed up with living a half-life. He was also the only person not currently treating me like a fascinating science experiment.
“Lucy, we're going to begin the infusion now. Remember, this is different from anything we've tried before. The initial gene therapy targets your compromised immune markers specifically. Unfortunately, this process is far from painless, and we can’t put you to sleep.”
His voice paused.
The room seemed to hold its breath in response to his quiet.
Seconds ticked by and my flight instincts began to scream inside me, despite my inability to run away.
“Lucy, are you hearing me?” Doc Emerson’s kind voice filtered into my spiraling thoughts.
I wanted to nod, but even my head was strapped down.
“Yes,” I managed in a weak voice.
“Then I’ll tell them you’re ready,” he responded.
“Okay,” the single word slipped through my dry lips and quickly faded. Despite shivering beneath the blankets, I suddenly felt flushed with heat. The sensation lasted no longer than the span of two heartbeats before I was ice cold again.
“Positive thoughts, Lucy.” The good doctor seemed to be making a last-ditch effort to put me at ease. “I’ve studied the research, and I know what to expect.” He seemed to want to say more, but he gave my shoulder a squeeze instead and moved out of view.
They’d warned me there was a possibility of extreme discomfort. That warning was woven into the fine print ofmodified snake venom and chance of gene mutation. I’d signed the consent forms anyway.
Extreme discomfort and far from painless: that was all just medical speak for this is going to hurt like hell, but I didn’t care. I’d claw at life until the very end. I’d never give up, even if it meant a thousand needles and a million pills.
Besides, I’d been poked and prodded my entire life. This couldn’t be worse than other things I’d endured to survive from one birthday to the next.
Twenty-four years of hollowed-out living had led to this moment—this terrifying, wonderful,possibly finalmoment.
“Pushing pre-meds.” A young voice announced.
Warmness began to flood through me.
It actually felt good, and I had a blissful moment when I imagined this wouldn’t be so terrible after all.
“First phase medication is prepped.”
“Vitals stable?”
“75 bpm, respiratory rate 16, Systolic at 100 and diastolic 75. Temp is 98.7 and Oxygen sat 90 percent.”
“Adjust the supplementary Oxygen.”
I felt the oxygen mask being adjusted against my face, the plastic pressing into my skin. My lungs expanded a little easier with each breath, though anxiety still clawed at my chest.
"Beginning first phase of gene therapy infusion," someone announced.
A gentle tug at the line.
“Slowly… slowly,” someone murmured.
