“Age?”
“Twelve.”
“Bitten?”
“Yes.”
“Feral signs?”
“None yet.”
Another pause.
“Bring him,” she said. “Dock seven. No lights.”
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“Thank you,” I said.
She didn’t respond.
The transport door opened. I laid the boy gently inside, pulling the blanket tighter around him. He blinked up at me, confused and frightened.
“Am I going to die?” he asked softly.
“No,” I said. “You’re going to live.”
He swallowed, nodded, and closed his eyes again. His mother climbed in the car beside him, her gaze locking with mine.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome,” I answered.
As the transport pulled away, I stood there in the dark, heart hammering, knowing that I’d probably have to do the same thing tomorrow night.
The knock came the next morning.
Not the polite, uncertain kind my patients used.
This one was quick. Official. Somehow rude.
I was halfway through scrubbing dried blood from the sink, when it came again, harder this time, followed by the unmistakable sound of a rifle cocking just outside the door.
I dried my hands slowly.
Counted my breaths.
Then went and opened the door.
Three men stood there in pressed gray coats with red insignia stitched at the collar. London Military Authority.
“Doctor Eamon Tierney,” the one in front said. “You’ll permit us entry.”
It wasn’t a request.
I stepped aside.
They moved in with professional efficiency, spreading through my clinic as if they’d rehearsed the layout. One checked the supply cupboards. Another examined my records cabinet. The third remained with me, eyes roaming the room, cataloguing everything he could see.
