FIGHT/CURE NICOLE K. TSAKOUMAGOS Master of Fine

FIGHT/CURE

NICOLE K. TSAKOUMAGOS

Master of Fine Arts in Fiction

Cleveland State University

May 2021

submitted in partial fulfillment for the requirements of the degree

MASTER OF FINE ARTS

at the

CLEVELAND STATE UNIVERSITY

May 2021

We hereby approve this thesis for

NICOLE TSAKOUMAGOS

Candidate for the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing degree for the

Department of English, the Northeast Ohio MFA Program

and the CLEVELAND STATE UNIVERSITY

College of Graduate Studies

______Thesis Chairperson, Imad Rahman

______English, April 16, 2021

______Thesis Committee Member, Caryl Pagel

______English, April 16, 2021

______Thesis Committee Member, Christopher Barzak

______YSU English Department, April 16, 2021

Student’s Date of Defense: April 16, 2021

FIGHT/CURE

NICOLE TSAKOUMAGOS

ABSTRACT

A complex pandemic dubbed the Mutli-Pan (Multiple Pandemic) has begun to destroy humanity. Rather than a new virus with specific symptoms and treatments, the human immune system has become incredibly weak. Every terminal disease and major organ failure have become extremely contagious and are metastasizing at alarming rates.

It’s not just a race for a single cure, but for every cure to every disease and bodily failure.

The leader of the efforts for treatment and research is the mega conglomerate, PharmaCo.

They have recreated the hierarchy of medical practice and issued a mandatory draft to recruit as many medical personnel as possible. Among the drafted is Rowan Mendez, a young student Intern trying to juggle his studies, work, and caring for his sick brother,

Isaac. Their parents died due to the Multi-pan, leaving the pair to try and survive on their own. Isaac’s kidneys and lungs are failing, but Rowan is able to keep him stable with his access to more advanced equipment and their parents’ life insurance. Rowan is able to maintain the tenuous balance of responsibilities thanks to his perseverance, quick- thinking, and his addiction to WakeD, an OTC stimulant supplement. He begins to see cases of what appear to be violent reactions and deaths due to a new substance during his work. Isaac’s heart fails, leaving him on life support in the ICU and Rowan to try and find a solution before Isaac dies. He tries to procure transplant organs to no avail but hears about PharmaCo conducting human trials for a possible cure to the Multi-Pan. He agrees to participate in the trails on behalf of Isaac only to find that the drug that was causing the violent deaths he’d previously seen at work are due to the cure. He has to

iii

fight against patients of the Multi-Pan who are in belligerent, bloodthirsty, medically induced trances. He is able to survive because of his strong immune system, previous experience as an MMA athlete, and determination to save Isaac at all costs.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

ABSTRACT ...... iv

CHAPTER

I ...... 1

II ...... 9

III...... 19

IV ...... 38

V ...... 50

VI ...... 63

VII ...... 82

VIII ...... 90

IX ...... 123

X ...... 142

XI ...... 153

XIII ...... 158

CHAPTER I

Rowan can’t stop thinking about Isaac back at home. He just hopes Isaac is still breathing. His Emergency Alert hasn’t gone off, so he should be okay. But Alerts have failed before. His professor is probably annoyed by his feet tapping and pen-clicking.

He’s annoyed with his professor’s weird chain-smoker voice. He’s talking about lung failure, like some kind of sick joke. Sick. Joke. Rowan really should be paying attention.

Isaac’s lungs started failing a week ago. His kidneys had already been going down for a few months before that. Rowan already know what’s happening. He knows what his professor is talking about because He’s seen it at home. Now he gets to see it projected on a screen in ultra HD. The professor points and prods around the fake lung. Rowan should still pay attention. He can’t stop tapping, clicking, tapping, clicking, tapping, clicking-

“Shortness of breath, or rapid breathing,” he says. Tap, click. “Wheezing, and wet coughs with mucous expulsion-,” click, click, tap, tap, tap, tap. “-bluish hue to the skin-” clickclickclickclick, “Fatigue.” taptaptaptaptapclick, “Anxiety.”

CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK. “Blood cannot be properly oxygenated, which can lead to…” Isaac’s mask will fog up less and less with each passing day. Rowan reminds himself that he should probably get a new tank and some more tubing on the way home.

There’s an exam on the respiratory system in two weeks. Then a practical a week later.

He hopes Isaac gets better before then. Class is over before his hand cramps up from the clicking.

One of the only good things to come out of the Multi-Pan is how clean buses are these days. He doesn’t miss the feeling of needing a shower after a ride on the subway.

The buses, the polyurethane tubes they move through, even the people are all clean enough to eat off of. Rowan has about an hour between when he gets home and before he leaves for work. He decides to phone Isaac. He grabs his Alert out of his bag. There are scratched up divots on the screen from all the most familiar numbers and buttons. Having a disposable cellphone used to be a joke. Now, everyone gets new, more efficient, more sterile Alert each year. Disposable Smartphones. Isaac’s Vital app says everything looks normal. Rowan scrolls thought Isaac’s PD and specialists to see if anything’s been updated. No change. He presses Isaac’s tab.

Ring.

Beep. Beep. Beep. He has to manually keep his heart from sinking. Vitals are still normal.

Isaac’s probably in the bathroom. If he doesn’t call back and his vitals tank in five minutes, Rowan will call an ambulance. The grey plastic vibrates and sings in his hand before he can finish the plan.

“Hey Rowan,” Isaac says on the other end of the video. Immediate relief.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” he asks.

“Nah, I was just grabbing some chips. I didn’t wanna pick up with his hands all greasy.” He carefully lands a chip on his tongue before crunching it up, “You done for the day?”

“With school, yeah. I have a shift at Sacred Heart later. I thought I told you?”

Isaac coughs a little between his chips but recovers easily. “You okay? I can try to call off.”

“Nah, yeah, I’m okay. Piece of salt hit a dry patch in his throat.” His voice isn’t as raspy as it was yesterday. His complexion looks peachier than yesterday. Rowan feels a pinprick of optimism.

“You good on oxygen? Tissues? Xans?” he asks. Isaac looks around his room before answering.

“I think we’re down to one tank, but that should last me until tomorrow, right?”

“I’ll grab a few on my way home after work. I already passed the WellMart.”

“Gotcha. Alright, I’ll keep the door open for ya.”

“See ya in a bit.” They sign off the call. Rowan focuses on a free space of window across from his seat. The world skims by at fifty miles an hour, but he can still pick out all of the landmarks. Johnson’s place. The Gastro Center. Costco. St. Peter’s Oncology

Clinic. His old elementary school. A Mercury AIDS Institute. The buildings and streets in the negative space are sparingly dotted with people in and out of a rainbow of various masks and Haz-med suits. A goth couple with neon tubes in their hair and stylized gas masks walk by. He wonders if it’s even possible to get a pure costume gas mask

anymore. Then a well-dressed mom pushing a suited baby in a bubble stroller. She’s

either a die-hard Anti-Vax or the baby had less than good Immuno-Comp scans. Rowan

stands up and heads for the door before the bus slides to a stop. First the bus door opens,

then the tube doors.

The neighborhood Isaac and Rowan grew up in looks mostly the same, save for

the different levels of quarantine. All of the houses have the mandated sterile shower and

suit closet built off of the side. A most are Silicone-bubbled. Only two aren’t. One of

them looks like they’re getting ready for a deep sterilization. Those aren’t cheap... someone might’ve pulled through. More likely, they didn’t. He’s heard of the Clean

Cubes that healthy people go to while their houses get cleaned but hasn’t met anyone who’s gone to one. Not even someone who knows someone who’s gone to one. No one’s been hit with a hard eviction yet. The Mendez house was bubbled after Isaac’s lung failure was diagnosed. The bubbles weren’t commonplace until after their parents died.

The plastic has an iridescent hue in the sunlight. It looks like a giant soap-bubble.

Rowan steps into the closet before shower and put his clothes, underwear and shoes in for a quick UV bake. He squeezes his eyes shut before the chlorine and iodine solution hits. The cotton-scented soap fails to mask the chlorine smell. He quickly scrubs his body for the next sixty seconds. He thinks he should switch to citrus scented next time they run out of soap. Then the lukewarm rinse and pure O2 dry. Finally, a fine mist of oil and ceramides keep his skin from disintegrating. He should pick up more of that solution, too. His clothes are a little warm from the pod. He just puts on his shirt and boxers before walking through the shower door that leads into the house. Isaac is still in the kitchen.

Rowan hears his chewing from the front room.

“Please tell me that’s the sound of apples and celery,” he calls in Isaac’s direction.

“Yes, mom. D’you know they make salt and vinegar flavored vegetables?” He

calls back. Rowan tosses his bag on the couch and walk into the kitchen to find Isaac

eating out of the bag. He gives him his best disappointed face.

“What? Potatoes are vegetables,” Isaac says out of the free section of his lips. He

walks past him towards the fridge.

“How you feeling, Iz?”

“Gettin’ better every day.” He starts coughing after he swallows another chip.

“Salt. Dry spot,” he tries to reassure him. He scratches his dark beard and keeps eating.

He’s only gotten a little thinner since he’s gotten sick, but his upper muscles are still taut and visible as ever. Rowan may have the stronger immune system, but Isaac has the stronger metabolism. Or maybe all the coughing has kept him in shape.

“There’s this stuff called ‘water’ y’know. Not only does it keep your throat moist-

” Isaac cuts him off with a shudder.

“Blech, you know I hate that word.”

“But it also keeps your functioning organs from drying out.” Rowan grabs a bottle from the fridge and toss it at Isaac. He catches it. Rowan grabs one for himself and a tub of last night’s dinner.

“Still tastes like plastic.” His voice is scratchy from coughing. Or the salt. He sits down next to him.

“Sorry we can’t afford spring water, my liege.” This lasagna was frozen when they bought it. Now it’s just cold. The cheeses and oil are congealed in an off-putting

rainbow of orange-red, burnt white and brown. Why does he even bother cooking the

damn thing if they’re just gonna eat it cold again? He still eats it.

“Well, when my lungs get better, I’ll get back to work.” There’s not a trace of

irony in his voice. He flattens the bag and funnels the remaining chips into his open

mouth. “I might not be able to go back to a base, but I know they let ICs work from

home.” Kidney failure on its own is still relatively treatable compared to a single cancer

or heart failure. But he doesn’t know if he genuinely thinks that his lungs will just clear

out and life will go back to normal. They got Rowan’s medical draft and Isaac’s return

notice on the same day. He came home from his last tour a little before mom and dad got

sick. Rowan hears Isaac exhale deeply into the couch. His shoulders relax a little.

“We’re still good for a while. Insurance paid on like, Tuesday I think?” he asks.

Rowan flips through the various billing apps on his alert to see if he’s right. A single

green line of text from Phamily Insurance Co. amidst a sea of red withdrawals. His shoulders relax a little more. His pay from working the Optometry pop-up and Sacred

Heart haven’t cleared yet. Grey lines remind him that tuition comes out in two weeks.

Student loans doesn’t start until he’s be a fully-fledged practitioner. His shoulders tense up again. Maybe Isaac’s lungs will get better before then and he’ll be able to work, like he said. It’s not like its chronic lung-failure. Acute can be treated much easier these days anyway.

Isaac’s medicine reminder pings on his watch. He walks to the bathroom with his bottle of water. Rowan’s leftover lasagna is gone before he can process that He’s eaten it.

The inner walls of his esophagus feel slick with wet, yet waxy grease. A familiar high- pitched pain rings around his head and behind his eyes. He hears a bottle opening and

pills being shaken out. Rowan checks his Alert for the time. It’s 3:17. He doesn’t have to be at work until 4:30. A quick nap before work sounds pretty nice, but a WakeD sounds more plausible. He tries to rub out little nodes of tension in his eyebrows. Coming down from WakeD never fails to leave pockets of randomly dispersed pain. Isaac’s coughs ring out from the bathroom. Rowan stands up to go find him.

“For fuck’s sake, drink some water,” he calls at Isaac. He finds him hunched over the pink mucous dotted sink. Rowan rushes to him to help him stand straight. “Whoa, whoa, easy there, man.” he pats his back softly, “You okay?” His coughs rattle out one more time.

“Ju-juss gemme to m’tank.” Isaac says meekly. He gets him to the reclined half of the couch and fit him with his mask. He gives me a thumbs-up to let me know he’s comfortable. Rowan switches the tank on. It hisses to life as Isaac takes a few big breaths.

His mask fogs and clears as he tries to make his breathing steady. Rowan grabs a box of tissues and put it between them on the couch.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay home tonight?” Rowan asks.

“Don’ worry ‘bout me. I’ll sit wi-the tank until you get back,” he takes a big inhale and exhales fog into the mask. “I’ll be better by then, I swear.” His tone is hopeful.

If he stays away from dry foods, he might be okay.

“I’ll grab a couple before I come home.”

“I know you will, Row.” He pulls and hacks out a blob of clear mucous into a tissue, “Good thing you get discounts on tanks and shit.” He clears his throat and pushes his shaggy bangs out of his now pale face. Isaac’s eyes don’t leave him, but he can tell

he’s trying to focus on breathing evenly. “I mean, it’s nothing special compared to dad’s coupon hoarding, but y’know, still nice.” He makes a face and shrugs.

“Oh, for sure. I mean look at you, breathing us out of house and home.

Disgraceful,” He tries to say in dad’s disappointed voice.

“You know when they heard he died all the cashiers in the Tri-State area breathed a sigh of relief,” he says without missing a beat. They laugh at each other. Rowan could swear he sees a little color come back to Isaac’s face. He’d OD on jokes and sarcasm if he could.

Isaac nods off after a few minutes. Rowan keeps his eye on Isaac’s mask while he tries to catch up on homework. His eyelids get too heavy to keep open between the main and Lobar bronchus. He mentally notes to crack a WakeD on the bus. He spends his last bit of energy on hoping he has an alarm set on his Alert.

CHAPTER II

So many Pop-up pharmacies and specialty clinics that come and go with supply and demand. Rowan watches them whiz by out of his favorite patch of window on his way to the hospital. He works at the Optic Care whenever they have in their spot on

Garden street. The PharmaCo franchise drugstores He’s worked for ate up the old sandwich place next door. They’re the only thing more contagious than the Pan.

Revolving doors of med students come and go if there’s a scheduling error or emergency.

He’s only ever been called twice, and the pay is decent. He doesn’t know if anyone besides the Triages can pay anybody besides Doctors, Surgeons, and Pharmacists. All the hospitals apart from the PharmaCo Holy Triage branches aren’t what they used to be.

Isaac and Rowan once got stitches in an emergency room at a general hospital that doesn’t exist anymore. There were vacant spots in the parking lot. Ambulances sat idle in the garage. A few empty seats in the waiting room. The nurses were a bit older, but they had good bedside manner. Hell, actual nurses still existed back then. Ours had honey colored eyes and gave us stickers for being brave boys since we didn’t cry while we were getting stitched up. It seems too far away now. If there was only one new virus, humanity might have been able to recover. But no, it had to be all of the viruses. All of the cancers.

All of the major organ failures. Everything rare, but still deadly and debilitating, became

as common and contagious as a fucking cold. Worst of all, people still have the nerve to

think it will all blow over in a year or so.

Rowan shuffles through his bag until his hand finds its way to the bottle of

WakeD caps. Rowan shakes the last blue oblong cap onto his hand. He makes a mental

note to remember to pick more of these up today. He carefully pulls the cap open, inhales

the powder and dry swallows the cap. Just like riding a bike. It prickles through him like

niacin at first. Then his heartrate kicks up slightly. His nose psychosomatically smells

burnt Earl Grey tea. He shakes his head like an Etch-a-Sketch. His vision feels clearer.

He should have enough energy to run a half marathon, but I’ll spend it all at work. A

pharmaceutical grade bike. The bus’s intercom chimes.

Next stop, the Hospital of the Sacred Heart.

Rowan stands up and wait by the doors until the dappled stone building stands in

front of me. He’s here for a twelve-hour shift, not counting the hour he and the rest of the

personnel spend in the showers before and after his shift. It’s a decent place. The facilities are clean, personnel are friendly and work on actually healing people before money is even asked for. Interns get treated like shit, though. But maybe that’s the case everywhere. They get paid mostly just to go to school, then any hours past twelve gets us some actual pocket money. Rowan wonders what’s on his docket today as he slides on his disposable maroon scrubs.

He heads for the Intern Station, noting all of the soft beeps, voices, and shoe sounds around me. Julie’s working the desk today. She looks spent beyond spent. Her hair looks like brown barn hay disguising itself as human hair. She’s probably at the tail end of a double. Or even a triple, if that’s legal.

“Hey Jules.” Rowan tries to keep his voice bright before the WAKE-UP starts controlling his empathy.

“Hi Rowan. How’s your brother?” She returns his brightness.

“0812206318,” he drones out. Julie types in his code. “He’s hangin’ in there.

Never wants to admit he’s sick. The usual,” he adds.

“His dad’s the same. Army guys. What can you do?” She scoots to the printer as his docket slides out, “He had another stroke last night.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah. I noticed it right as I was leaving for his shift, so I just brought him here with me. Got him here before his vision blurred and he was stabilized with a few minutes to spare before I had to clock in.” She smiled as she told her story. She probably asked for more hours just so she could keep an eye on her dad.

“The most timely stroke in all of recorded history,” Rowan says. She scoots toward him with her tablet. He scans the barcode with his Alert. The light flashes green and his docket is ready.

“Yeah, we definitely lucked out. I’m just glad he’s stable. Any questions?” She asked. He glazed over his list. Nothing he hadn’t seen before.

“I should be okay. You want a coffee or anything? I was gonna grab one before I officially clocked in.” She hummed in thought for a moment.

“I guess if you find your way back here, I’ll take one. Doesn’t go out of the way though, I should be done here in like ten.” Just like Jules. She never wants to be a bother.

Can anyone besides patients afford to be bothers anymore? Probably not.

“Yes ma’am,” Rowan saluted her, “Have a good night if I don’t see you again.”

“You too, Rowan,” she called as he started walking away.

THE HOSPITAL OF THE SACRED HEART PERSONNEL DOCKET

PERSONNEL CLEARENCE LEVEL: STUDENT INTERN

NAME: MENDEZ JR., ROWAN SERIAL NO.: 0812206318 D.O.B.: 08/12/2020

IMMUNE SYSTEM STATUS: HEALTHY

17:OO-18:30: ADMISSIONS/ DISCHARGE

19:15-21:00: SURGERY ASSIST: SURG. RICHARD HALE (APPENDECTOMY)

21:30-23:00: GENERAL NURSING

23:15-00:00: SPECIALIST ASSIST: SPEC. CAITLYN O’DOOLE (RADIOLOGY)

00:30-02:45: BREAK

03:00-5:00: ON CALL

5:00: END OF SHIFT. CLOCK OUT AND SHOWER

Rowan notices that won’t make it back to Julie in time for a coffee, but maybe he thinks

he can check in on her dad. Hopefully he’s in his usual room. Rowan hopes she has the

good sense to actually go home for some rest. The coffee machine clicks off to let me

know it’s finished. It already smells a little burnt. He preemptively adds a few sugar

packets to the bottom of his cup before pouring in the coffee. To his surprise, it’s not

burnt. He knocks it back in a few careful mouthfuls before deciding to make another cup

to take with him to Admissions. Usually, Derek works admissions too. Rowan lids the

cup and make his way back into the burgundy halls. He glazes over each room on his

way, looking for Julie’s dad behind the glass doors that haven’t been opaqued for

privacy. No sign of him, but plenty of ambient sickness and personnel chatter to fill the

space. Each tv he passes relays the same manufactured optimism for the ‘future’.

‘PharmaCo works for you. For us. For the future.’ Who knows? Maybe it’s true. If the

Pan was easy to figure out, it would’ve been figured out already and everyone would be busy living in some semblance of normality. It’s too hard to think about what normal might be once humanity gets better.

Admissions has a Haz-med closet a few doors away, but Rowan just goes for a mask instead. Most patients either come suited or masked depending on their score. No

LICs work in medicine, period. ImmunoComp tests and scores didn’t happen until after a good portion of medical personnel started getting sick. X amount of the Pan is transmitted externally, and Y amount is just predisposition. Good IC scores just reassure people that they have a strong enough immune system to be careful in their normal, day- to-day lives. Low scores remind people that there is no more normal day-to-day life. The office is mostly empty, save for the red-haired guy working the desk and a man holding a swaddled baby. Sometimes Admissions doubles as a waiting room. The guy at the desk isn’t Derek, or anyone else Rowan knows. He must’ve just started a few days ago. He looks at the cup. Rowan doesn’t know how he takes his coffee. He must’ve heard him coming; he spins around in his chair to face Rowan.

“Uh, are you my relief?” He asks a bit nervously.

“Yeah, 0812206318.” Red-haired guy looks confused. Rowan adds, “That’s my code. To verify that I’m your relief.”

“Oh right, uh,” he looks down at his docket then back at Rowan, “020913384.

Jacob Ivarson. Personnel Clear-,” Rowan puts his hand up to stop him.

“I don’t need the whole spiel, man, you’re good,” he says. He hands Jacob the coffee, “You new here?”

“Yeah. I’ve worked one or two pop-ups, but I figured an actual hospital would be more coded, y’know?” He takes the cup with a slow and tentative hand.

“Got it. Sacred Heart’s pretty laid back about that stuff until the Feds come. We only need to exchange serials on arrival and for verification.” Rowan grabs and sits in the wheelie chair next to Jacob. It hisses under his weight.

“Does anyone go by name in here?”

“Just people you know by name. I’m Rowan,” he holds out his hand. Jacob sanitizes before shaking. Rowan half-smiles as he remembers those days. The door to the left swooshes open. One scarlet suit wheels a white suit out in a wheelchair to the lone man. He kisses the white suit’s forehead and makes the baby wave its tiny hand in front of the white suit.

“Hi mommy,” the man/baby says.

“Hello, angel,” the white suit says softly.

“I’ll get your papers, which you’ll have to sign, then you three are good to go,” the red suit says before it walks towards the desk. Dr. Weisman’s round, wrinkled, tan face is behind the window in the red suit. He looks a Jacob, then at Rowan.

“Evening boys.” He nods to them.

“Dr. Weisman.” Rowan says. Jacob consults his paper again.

“020921384,” he says. Dr. Weisman smiles at him. “Uh, Jacob. Sir.”

“Discharge order 59610, please,” Dr. Weisman asks. Rowan pulls up the file on the computer.

“596…610, there she is” he says.

“Thank you.” Rowan sends the papers to a plastic tablet and hands it off to Dr.

Weisman. He double checks them before walking back to the family. Who has the

audacity to have children these days?

“He seems okay,” Jacob whispers.

“He is. I haven’t heard a bad word about him in the time I’ve worked here.”

Rowan watches him help the new family through the documents. His face is sincere

behind the mask’s clear carbon fiber.

“Anyone I should avoid?” He asks. Rowan racks his brain for a genuine answer.

“Aside from very sick people? I don’t think so.” Most of the interns are students

who jump ship whenever they get an opportunity for professional practice. The

specialists, pharmacists, and surgeons keep to themselves for the most part, and

PharmaCo sweeps private practices every year or so for new talent for the Triage. No one

really sticks around long enough to be bitter.

“The doctors here are good, right?” Jacob asks.

“Oh, yeah, for sure. At least, before they get moved or leave.” Rowan sounds a bit

sarcastic without meaning to. He’s not lying. Most of the personnel at Sacred Heart are

decent people. But how can you say no for a chance to work for a cure to the Pan and a

considerably fat pay bump?

“No need to flatter me or anyone else here, Rowan.” Dr. Weisman says a bit flatly. He’s standing in front of the desk.

“Dr. Weisman, I-,” Jacob says.

“Ah, it’s okay. PharmaCo asked me to join them a few times, but I really do like it here. Don’t you, Rowan?”

“What’s not to like? Everyone here actually cares about their work.” For better or worse operating on the periphery of the PharmaCo umbrella allows people to have more room for moral integrity that imperialism seldom has energy for.

“Exactly, my boy, exactly. Besides, I’m not so sure I can keep up with all of the young kids they’ve got working at the Triage,” he bends over slightly and pretends to ‘act his age’ by wobbling and moaning in pain. Rowan laughs. He looks at Jacob, who’s laughing a little, too.

“Hey mister, we don’t have a geriatrician on staff here. Take it to Meadowbrook on the north side of town,” Rowan jokes at him. He coughs and exaggerates his wobbling.

“Oh, what a world! Woe is me! The cruelty of the youths!” He stands back up to his full height, cracks the bend out of his back, and lets out a sigh. “Jokes aside, I am beginning to feel a bit old these days.”

“Anything interesting going on the Pan unit?” Rowan asks.

“That’s classified, I’m afraid.” His lips push into a dissatisfied line. Dr. Weisman looks around the empty room. “Besides, what’s there to tell? Modern medicine is becoming more modern to save humanity? To line someone’s pocket in the name of altruism? Sure, why not. Either way, science never sleeps.” His suit swooshes while he walks towards the polyurethane doors. Have a good shift, gentlemen,” he says before disappearing back into the bowels of the hospital. Rowan leans back into his chair and sighs.

“What do you think he means?” Jacob asks. He takes a tentative sip of his coffee.

“Who knows. Maybe they’ve figured out a new sterilization compound that

doesn’t need a million fucking showers to stay on the skin,” Rowan says.

“Is it weird that I kinda like the smell of chlorine?” He asks. Rowan raises an

eyebrow at him. “Reminds me of the pool.” He stares into nothing in particular.

“What happened?” Rowan asks. Jacob motions around the room.

“The Pan.”

“Oh, right.” He lets a few beats of silence pass while he sips at his coffee. A

memory of MMA flashes on the surface of his coffee.

“Do you miss it?” Rowan asks. Jacob looks up then meets Rowan’s eyes. His

eyebrows knit together for a second. His lips scrunch to the side of his face.

“Sometimes. I don’t really miss the meets and the freezing cold six a.m. pool. But these days...” Rowan can see him searching his memories “I miss my teammates. Just hanging out after practice and celebrating after meets, knowing I’d see them again at practice the next day.” His voice got a little heavier with each word. His hands tighten on his coffee cup slightly.

“You lose anyone?” Rowan asks. He tries to keep the rehearsed ‘bedside manner’ out of his voice.

“Not until after the season ended. It was kind of stupid, like, we won our last meet. No one was symptomatic of anything. Like, fuck all.” The left corner of his lip quivered, “Scotty was supposed to go the Olympics,” his voice was becoming watery.

Rowan puts his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. He exhaled slowly and looked at him, “I’m cool.”

“It’s okay, man. I think you’d be hard pressed to find someone who doesn’t have

any collateral damage. Never mind direct damage.” Jacob puts down the coffee and cracks his knuckles. The little pops bounce off of the walls. “Remember when people thought cracking your knuckles caused arthritis?” Rowan asks.

“What, really?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“Yeah. It doesn’t. At least, no one has proven it has. But damn it all if it’s not satisfying.” Jacob chuckles a little. The rest of his time in Admissions is quiet after Jacob leaves for his next assignment.

CHAPTER III

The surgical shower comes with separate sinks for hand sanitization. Any and all possible contagions as well as the organic moisture are removed under the pressurized water and burning OR soap. Rowan’s hands look like papier-mâché until he covers them in the special gloves that come with the disposable HazMed suit. They don’t stop feeling like papier-mâché until he rubs them down with Vaseline and coconut oil. The masks in

the OR are coated with something that contains and neutralizes breath microbes. It smells

like acetone. The only thing that keeps him from thinking it is just acetone is the fact that

no one passes out after continuously breathing it.

Rowan wonders if in Triages have special cleaning crews so the Interns can focus

more on actual medicine practice instead of sterilizing the equipment. Most places give

each wing a little section of ORs. Cardio OR, Pulmonary OR, OBGYN OR, and so on.

Sacred Heart has two whole, expansive floors dedicated to surgery. One in the Pan Unit

and one for non-pan surgeries. That’s practically enough to make a full wing in a Triage.

He’s willing to bet Sacred Heart has lost a lot of good surgeons because of the demand.

Maybe that’s why Prick is a prick. PharmaCo still clocks in at the most real estate and the

highest of tech, both physical and chemical, but actual surgery protocol is mostly the

same from place to place. Surgeons are some of the most isolated medical personnel,

second only to Pan Doctors. They only come out to perform surgery, collect their checks,

or the occasional malpractice suit, which means Rowan only has to deal with Hale when

it’s absolutely necessary. It’s not beyond reason that Rick Hale has earned the right to be

a bitter asshole just on the merit of his time at Sacred Heart. It’s still not enough to keep everyone else from calling him Prick Hale.

The lights in the actual surgery room snap on when they sense movement.

Rowan’s pupils ache at the sudden contraction. The ORs have to be covered in a razor- thin lining of Haz-Med material that gets carefully stripped away after each surgery. It makes the whole room look like a vinyl couch. Someone probably beat him to sterilizing the room, but he still has to get the equipment ready. Hale’s new order of implements is waiting in a blue plastic chest. Rowan hums The Legend of Zelda music when he opens the chest.

SteriSurg by PharmaCo Surgical Implement Kit:

Standard Issue Laparoscopic Appendectomy

SKU: LAPA1356K

Two scalpel blades. Six trocars. Six blunt graspers. Two electrocautery hooks. Two laparoscopes. All wrapped in beige silicone-coated paper. Rowan knows Prick will use

everything but the scalpels. No one really uses scalpels if they can help it. Electro-hooks

and knives make less of a mess. Prick just likes bringing his own scalpels to surgery.

Clock reads 18:53. Rowan is almost positive he can’t be the only one assisting. There’s a

hiss of doors opening in the washroom connected to the OR followed by some footsteps.

He exhales in relief. He doesn’t immediately recognize the pair of interns, but he

recognizes the monogramed scalpel case that one of them is carrying. It shines like the

vinyl OR room. Prick shouldn’t be too far behind. Rowan turns on the autoclave and

starts unwrapping everything while it warms up.

19:10. Rick Hale barges into the OR humming “Ramblin’ Man” to himself. His

booming footsteps betray his small stature.

“Evening everyone.” His nasally voice hisses behind his mask. “Has anyone here

not been present for, or previously debriefed on the procedure of a standard laparoscopic appendectomy?” he asks. Everyone says no one after each other. “Thank god. If I wanted to hold some candy-ass’s hands all day, I’d be a teacher. Or a psych. I’ve already had to go through a cholecystectomy, a c-section and a tonsillectomy today,” He walks around the OR making sure everything’s in order while he talks and waves his hands. He should have done this ten minutes ago. If something’s not up to code, the surgery will be delayed until it’s taken care of. “A tonsillectomy for fuck’s sake. If tonsil removal is too complicated for you, get out of surgery.” He stops in front of the three suits. “Waste some

space in internal medicine, or in a specialty for all I care. Am I right?” He looks at the

anesthesiologist on the left side of the room. “No offense, there, Jeff.” Jeff just nods and

focuses on his equipment. A forced laugh comes out of someone else’s mask. Prick

laughs along and points at the laughing mask. “This guy gets it,” he adds.

“Um, I’m actually a girl, Mr. Hale-,” she says.

“Doctor Hale. Surgeons do just as much work as the meds in the Pan. I practice medicine, I’m a doctor.” He leans his mask into her mask, “Hard to tell behind all this suit, I guess. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Leah, sir, eh, Doctor. Hale. 0602217481”

“Hmm. You know ‘Leah’ is a biblical name?” He backs away to a normal speaking space.

“Yes, Doctor Hale.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“No-,”

“It means ‘cow’ or ‘turn your eyes away’.” He laughs. Leah doesn’t laugh this time. He waves his hand like he’s brushing away the insult. “I’m just teasing you, girl.

I’m sure you’re a knockout under that suit.” Leah gives him a weak chuckle. “Anyway, we all know how this goes. Patient gets knocked out, I sneak in with the scope, nick the appendix, close ‘er up, and we all go home. Well, I go home anyway. I dunno how long you scrubs have left.” He complained about having to go over the procedure, but just does it anyway. Rowan feels for whoever had to deal with him earlier today… or ever.

“Rowan, you’re behind one of these suits, right?” he asks.

“Right here, sir. 0812206318.” He raises his hand. Hale assembles his knife out of the monogrammed box. “Everything in the shipment correct and sanitized?”

“Yes sir.”

“Patient was briefed on surgery before you got here?”

“Yes sir.”

“You answer all the questions to the best of your ability?”

“Yes sir.” He turns to took face Rowan for a second. “Did they actually have any questions?”

“Just about healing time, sir. I told them to avoid exerting themselves for at least a week and already scheduled their follow-up for next month.”

“Good boy.” He stands directly in front of him. Rowan can make out the pinched creases between his greying, almost unibrow. A bell chimes three times. They make some room for the patient to be wheeled in. Hale doesn’t say anything to him apart from letting everyone know that they won’t start until he’s totally under. Hale not-so-secretly loves infantilizing people. Jeff is the one who tries to ease the patient. He asks him to count backwards from one hundred. Rowan subconsciously counts along.

One hundred.

Ninety-nine. ninety-eight.

Ninety-seven.

Ninety-six.

His eyes flutter closed before Rowan can get to ninety-five. Everyone takes note of his vitals. Normal heartrate. Breathing steady. Unresponsive to reflex stimuli. Jeff keeps his gaze focused on the vitals. Hale asks Leah to turn on his music. Today’s selection: some pretentious opera crap. Probably Vivaldi. Rowan considers taking up Italian just to make sure he is actually being pretentious. As the music starts, Prick starts conducting along like an over-zealous maestro. Rowan makes sure Hale’s not looking at him when he rolls his eyes hard enough to check to make sure his brain is still in his skull.

Watching Hale work is the only redeeming thing about him. He goes completely silent. Rowan pretends that while he’s operating, Prick is actually a decent human being who doesn’t condescend to everyone within earshot. He’s grateful for the chance to make an impact. To save lives, even. Even when he’s doing a simple surgery, like the appendectomy he pissed and moaned about five minutes ago, he leaves no room for error

because he cares about his patient. A boy can dream. The actual surgery only takes about twenty minutes from incision to closing. Patient is wheeled out in less than five. Hale sterilizes his scalpel and carefully puts it back into the monogrammed box. The interns work to get everything else re-sterilized and disposed of respectively. Hale only breaks the silence to exhale melodramatically and continue the Vivaldi or whatever melody on his way out. His pounding footsteps ring out against the walls as he walks into the washroom.

Rowan’s got about a half hour before he has to be at his next assist. The sign on the closest wall has Jules’s dad’s usual room number somewhere in the coming hallway.

He doubts anyone will call if he can’t get to wherever in five minutes or less. Rowan’s feet commit to checking on Jules’s dad before the rest of him can object. Thankfully, he’s in his room so Rowan doesn’t need to go searching or worrying for him. The glass outer wall is transparent, but the silicone curtain in front of his bed is half drawn forward.

Rowan tries to walk in slowly just in case he’s asleep. He’s not, but Julie seems to be asleep in the chair next to him. His eyes move from her to Rowan.

“Evening, doctor,” he says quietly.

“Oh, I’m not a doctor sir. You-”

“You work here, don’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

“You make sure people feel better when under your care?”

“Yes sir.”

“That makes you a doctor as far as I’m concerned.” His voice is firm and confident. Someone could probably tell that he’s a vet just listening to him.

“With all due respect sir, I don’t do the same kind of work that the doctors here do. I’m just a student intern, like Julie,” Rowan says. He huffs softly.

“Well, I think that’s nonsense, but I’ll respect that. What do you go by then?”

“Rowan, sir. Rowan Mendez.” Rowan offers a handshake which he returns.

“I think Julie’s mentioned you before. Miller. Jason Miller,” he breaks the handshake. “So, what brings you here, Mendez? I’d offer you a chair, but Julie’s got the only one.” He motions to the still sleeping Julie.

“I told her I’d check on you if I had some time. She told me she was going home last I saw here, but that was hours ago.” Mr. Miller looks at Julie and smiles.

“She got here after her shift ended. Said she just wanted to sit down and rest for a minute, fell asleep not long after. I wish I could just take her home, myself.” His eyes are a lighter shade of brown than Julie’s, but similar enough to connect them as father and daughter.

“When she was a baby, I’d drive her around when she couldn’t sleep,” he continued.

“My parents used to do that for my brother. They’d take me along, so I wasn’t home alone. I never got why until it started working on me, too.”

“Is there a ‘medical reason’ why kids nod off on car rides?” There’s a lilt of sarcasm in his voice.

“The consistent environment is soothing. The car noises, the gentle movements of the ride, it all helps them subconsciously relax. It can happen to adults, too.” Rowan answers almost immediately. Mr. Miller seems surprised that he got an answer at all.

“Huh. I never get sleepy when I drive.”

“Do they drill alertness into you when you go into the service?” His white, caterpillar brow raises to his non-existent hairline. “Julie said you were in the army. My brother was, too.” His face relaxes a little.

“How long?”

“Just a little over two years. He wanted to be a full-time technician, but he ended up getting sick after his last tour.”

“That’s a damn shame. Even if we’re not facing a threat, we could always use good people.”

“He’s good, alright. The best.”

“Bet he’s real smart.”

“He is. He’s just a good guy, too. Always tries to make everyone laugh.”

“Sounds like one of my old platoon mates. He could find the bright side of a black hole.”

“What happened to him?”

“He went MIA. Don’t know if they taught you kids anything about Desert Storm, but we were in Kuwait trying to sweep out some terrorists in a village. Danny tried saving some civilians, but they were part of the group controlling the village. Never found out of he made it back home.” His tone was level, but his face started to sag at the sadness of his lost friend.

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” Rowan tries to push his sincerity to the front of his voice.

Mr. Miller gets a smile on his face to ease the tension.

“’sall right, son. For all I know he could’ve made it out. Might be off making a fool of himself in civilian life.” They both laugh at the idea.

Julie stirs a little but doesn’t wake up. Mr. Miller focuses on her again for a few beats.

“Can I ask you something, Mendez?” Rowan nods. He keeps his eyes on Julie

while he speaks, “Do you think what you do is worth it? Yeah, saving lives and healing

the sick is good. No one’s gonna say it’s not. But do you think all of what you go through

is really worth it?” Rowan’s knee-jerk reaction is to just say it is. But he tries to consider

his implications. Before he can answer, Mr. Miller continues, “I’ve been through and

seen a lot of shit in my time. Yeah, there’s plenty I’d like to forget about or do different.

But looking down at her,” he looks at Julie, “I would do it all a million times over if it

meant she could have a life and live it. Fuck honorable service. I was career before we

had her, but she’s what really made all the shit worth it in the end. She keeps telling me

what she does it’s all worth it. Keeps saying that I’ve done my part and now it’s her turn

to do hers,” he takes a breath and quietly, swallows, what looks like a cry. “I know she just wants to fight the good fight. But I didn… she shouldn’t have to...” he lets coughs and tries to stiffen himself. Rowan lets a few beats of silence pass. He genuinely doesn’t know how to answer all of that.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to unload all of that on you.” Rowan can’t tell if he feels

genuinely ashamed of his emotions or not. He doesn’t comment on it. Even patients who

aren’t fighting something terminal get sentimental. Rowan imagines that he might get

better insight on that in a future psych rotation, if he ever gets one.

“Don’t mention it.” His watch beeps to let him know that he should head onto his

next assignment. “Well, Mr. Miller, I hope you and Julie can get out of here soon. I’ve gotta get to my next assist, but I’m sure you know you’ve got people within earshot if you need any help.”

“Absolutely,” he salutes me, “You take care, Mendez.” Rowan salutes back.

“You too, Mr. Miller.” Rowan sees him look back to Julie as he walks out. Rowan thinks about Isaac and the draft. He served of his own free will. Sure, Rowan might have wanted to be a doctor at some point, but the Pan didn’t really leave him a choice.

Dodging and desertion are punishable by forced human experimentation. He pulls up his docket on his Alert to take his mind off of it. He doesn’t think he’s ever worked with

Specialist O’Doole before, but he’s done a few radiology assists so this should be easy.

The Scorch balm Rowan uses smells more like tanning oil than balm. The stuff

that the rest of the guys use smells like Old Spice. He’s quietly happy he went for Scorch.

Old Spice reminds him of his tío. The balm glides on at first, then feels a little tacky

when he gets his shirt and shorts on. He walks towards the sink to try and wash the rest of

it off, so he doesn’t sweat inside of his gloves. Sometimes sweat can leak out of the

finger holes and could make a hit slip and lose power. His exposed arms and calves look like they’re made of doll plastic. A toilet flush behind him. Quicksilver walks out and up to the adjacent sink.

“Hey CT,” he says. Crouching Tiger. Rowan would’ve preferred the Hidden

Dragon half.

“Hey man,” Rowan says. The balm melts slowly under the hot water. Quick rinses but doesn’t use soap, “Didn’t realize there’s no soap left.”

“I got hand sanitizer, what’s the difference?” Quick says.

“You’re already at the sink. Just use the damn soap.” Rowan shakes off the water before ripping a few paper towels out of the dispenser. Quick rolls his eyes and squirts

three pumps of fluorescent green goo into his hands.

“This shit dries my skin like nobody’s business,” he says. He scrubs his hands

loudly.

“So?” Rowan leaned his back against the wall so he wouldn’t mess up the balm.

“Makes my skin crack and bleed.” Rowan sees his skin start to ash as the water

dries.

“If you don’t like blood, you’re in the wrong place my dude.” He walks back to

his locker to wrap and glove his hands.

“You got any idea who else is on the bracket after us?” Quick asks from the

bathroom. Rowan racks his brain while his hands wrap tape from muscle memory. If he’s

right, St. George sprained his foot, but he could still push through to fight. Wolfman and

Venom were on for yesterday. Quick opens his locker and wraps.

“Who won last night?” Rowan asks.

“Venom, but it was default.” Rowan doesn’t know who Venom is. Or Wolfman.

He tries to remember Quick’s first name. He slides his gloves on.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Warren’s sick. He’s in the hospital I think,” Quick says over his shoulder. So,

Warren is Wolfman. Warren. Wolf. Makes sense.

“What happened? Is he hurt?” Rowan asks. Quick steps on the scale in the corner

of the room.

“Don’t think so.” Beep. “Last time I saw him he wasn’t lookin’ so hot.” Beep-

beep “Probably a f-,” Beeeeeeeep. “God damn it.” Quick mutters. Rowan thinks he meant

to say flu.

“Over?”

“Three pounds. Scale at home said I was only one over.” He goes back to his

locker and shuffles through his things Rowan takes his gloves off and gets on the scale

once it resets. “I don’t have any thermo gel left.” Beep. Beep-beep. Beeeeeeeep 184. One

pound under. Rowan exhales. Making weight is a sport in and of itself. He was always on

the lean side, but he always was envious of bigger guys. He’d give up a few inches if he

could have a bit more muscle mass.

“You can use mine. Just toss it back in when you’re done,” he says. Quick grabs a

modest handful and starts rubbing.

“Thanks man.” Rowan nods in his direction. He wraps his feet and gets out to the

main floor to stretch. Coach is on the phone. He’s pacing. He’s quiet yells are softly

bouncing around the gym walls. The pads and heavy bags are probably taking most of the

sound. He hangs up and walks over to Rowan and Quick. He’s never seen Coach’s face

like that. Somewhere between panic and solemn.

“Guys,” he shakes his head and squeezes his eyes, “Wolf-uh… Warren’s…”

Rowan and Quick exchange a worried glance. Rowan tries to force some optimism in his

head. Coach exhales a shaky breath. “Warren died yesterday.” He coughs to cover a cry.

His eyes look agitated but not on the verge of tears.

“What happened?” Quick asks. “He was here like a week ago. He-,”

“His spleen failed or something. Then his kidneys got bad.” A look of potent rage

and realization hit his face, “You shit heads been juicing?” Rowan and Quick try to say

something, anything but Coach keeps cutting them off. “You think this is a game?” he

paces, “You think you’re in the god-damn UFC? Y-you,” He starts screaming, “You

think you can just fuckin’ do some extra curriculars and destroy someone? Well, you

fuckin’ did.”

“We haven’t been taking anything. The hell are we gonna get steroids anyway?”

“Don’t act stupid Jeffers. Walk down the right alley or,” his eyes shoot to Rowan.

“Mendez, you fuckin’ scrub. You been sneaking shit from the hospital? Can’t pay your student loans? Huh?” Rowan freezes out of fear and anger.

“I-I just started like a mon-,”

“Fuck you. You,” he starts coming after Rowan. He puts his hands up. Rowan

perries them out of the way with his forearm. Coach stumbles but catches himself.

“Coach, he never had anything in the lockers. You know that virus or whatever is

getting bad.” Quick says. Rowan tries to swallow his ire.

“Yeah, he’s right.” Rowan adds.

“You mean to tell me a strong, active twenty-year-old kid can just drop dead like that?” he snaps his fingers. “You think I’m stupid?”

“Whatever’s causing this can affect anyone. Maybe he had some underlying

conditions,”

“Yeah, like you’ve been giving him roids. His immune system was probably

hurting already,”

“His immune system might’ve been bad beforehand. No one knows what makes

this shit hit who and when.” He seems placated for half a second. Rowan presses on, “Do

you know what he does outside of the gym?” More silence. “Maybe he’s been in contact

with a sick person.”

“If he’s been juicing it wasn’t us.” Quick adds. This seems to be enough for

Coach to entertain the idea. His frustration rebounds.

“You’re all getting tested. ASAP. So help me god if any of you come back

positive.” He storms off and slams the gym doors behind him. Rowan and Quick look at

the floor, then each other. The silence is dense and suffocating.

“Do you think he was juicing?” Quick asks Rowan. Rowan searches the limited

knowledge he’s accumulated.

“It was his spleen and kidneys.” Quick nods. “I know we didn’t do it, but he could’ve been.” Rowan remembers the way Wolfman would fight. Crazy fits of haymakers and he would pounce before grapples sometimes. Rowan thought he was called Wolfman because he was hairy. Sometimes he would howl after a win but that was just showmanship after he got the nickname anyway. He never seemed unhinged before or even after a fight. It was like he could turn his fury on and off. Roid Rage doesn’t have an off switch.

“You think the tournament’s still on?” Rowan asks.

“Doubt it.” Quick looks around the gym then back at Rowan. “You know how to shut this place down? I’m usually out of here before then,” he says. Rowan shakes his head.

“Coach’ll probably come back, right? We’re not really supposed to be here alone anyway.” Quick shrugs and smirks with confusion.

“You wanna go a few rounds before he gets back? Might be the last chance we get for a while,” Quick asks.

“Yeah, fuck it. He’ll probably want to close whenever he cools off.” Rowan’s seen Quick fight a few times but doesn’t remember if he fought him recently.

“If he cools off.” They both laugh and head into the octagon. Rowan bounces in place to get a rhythm. Quick throws a few shadow throws. “Three or TKO?” he asks.

Rowan nods.

“Points? Tap out?”

“Tap out” Quick walks to the center. Rowan meets him.

“For Wolfman?” He puts his hands up to touch mitts.

“Yeah. For Wolfman.” Quick howls. Rowan howls back. They bump gloves and bounce back into ready stances. Rowan doesn’t stand in a definitive style to try and throw his opponent off. Quick moves fluidly on his feet. His arms are kind of wide out while his mitts make opposite, parallel circles like a close-body Ginga. Rowan rushes to think how he can counter capoeira. A few minutes of dancing and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it fake- outs. Rowan goes for a Muay-Thai based combo and lands one touch to Quick’s chest.

He bobs and flies past Rowan’s gloves and gets two quick kicks to Rowan’s side and shoulder. Rowan tries to parry what he thinks is a three-point combo but leaves his abs open for a cross and an uppercut. He reels back and tries to go on the defensive. Quick gets to him with a Judo throw before he can find his footing and has Rowan in an arm-bar that makes him tap.

“Can’t touch this, can’t touch this,” Quick MC Hammer dances.

Seriously? Rowan tries to laugh it off. They touch mitts and ready themselves for round two. This time Quick takes somewhere between a boxing and taekwondo stance.

Rowan just needs two or three good hits. Quick’s fast but Rowan’s stronger and has a wider reach. He fakes left and gets Quick’s open right side with satisfying FWP,

FWP, FWP. Quick wobbles to the closest corner. Rowan peppers in more strong jabs.

Quick blocks enough to stay up but Rowan keeps him cornered until he can see the fear on his face. A ref would probably call a TKO. Rowan eases but gives Quick room to give up. He sees Quick put his hand up between the open space.

“Aight, you got that one. Gave it to you, but you got it,” Quick says. “Gimme a sec,” he walks to the opposite edge of the octagon where his water is and takes a big pull.

Rowan steadies his breathing. Quick cracks his neck and catches his breath before he

beckons Rowan back to the center. They touch mitts. More dancing. More fakes.

“You havin’ fun yet?” Quick teases. He gets two hits before Rowan blocks. He

goes for some strong high kicks that bust through Quick’s space. He catches himself and

back-wheels to get onto his feet. “Come on, Mendez, dance with me.”

Show-off. Rowan doesn’t take the bait. Quick laughs. If Coach was here, he

wouldn’t be having it. He does a few more shadow throws and a handstand. Oh, fuck off.

He knows he’s doing this on purpose but that doesn’t make it less grating. Rowan waits for Quick to come to him. He parries Rowan’s haymaker and tries to uppercut him, but only barely makes the hit. Rowan tries get a single leg takedown. Quick postures up and

pushes out of Rowan’s guard. Back to square one.

Dancing and fakes. Rowan’s teeth clench on his mouthguard. Fakes and dancing.

He growls in the bottom of this throat. Rowan knows this is what a lot of fights are, but

his patience is thinning. Quick loosens his stance and walks towards Rowan. He tightens

up in response. Quick can probably smell how tense Rowan is. He gets a jab-cross and a

leg kick on Rowan before a smooth side-step out.

“You still too heavy-footed, CT. Loosen up,” Quick says. Heavy footed? The ball

of Rowan’s foot launches into his solar plexus. Quick gets pushed right into a corner.

Quick starts to wobble. Rowan keeps the hits to the head going.

FWP. FWP. FWPFWP. FWPFWPFWP.

Quick’s eyes flash between Rowan’s mitts. Quick tries to protect his head.

Rowan goes for the exposed ribs with his knee. Twice. Three times. He coughs up blood into Rowan’s eyes.

Oh fuck.

Rowan backs off enough to give him air but makes sure he stays upright. He coughs again. His teeth are pink.

Oh fuck, oh fuck. He only just started physical trauma last week but he’s pretty sure there’s a cracked rib. Quick’s still breathing, albeit unevenly.

“Is there sharp pain in your rib?” he asks. Quick shakes his head. He points to his face.

“Muh nose.”

“Can you breathe through it?” Quick nods while he inhales through his nostrils.

Rowan tries to feel for a break or tear in his face. Quick flinches. Rowan takes his mitts off and holds his hands up. “I’m done. We’re done.” Quick tips his head back. He winces and hisses at Rowan’s touch. Everything feels normal. He tells him as much. Quick walks with heavy feet to his water and washes the blood out. He takes a mitt off and rubs his eyes.

“The hell, man?” he yells across the matt.

“You didn’t say anything,”

“Didn’t think I had to. You stopped last time,” he inhales and exhales deeply,

“fuckin’ psycho-ass motherfucker.” Rowan could swear he hears Quick laugh at the end.

At least he’s not a sore loser.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just lost my wind.” He walks towards Rowan. “You?”

Rowan makes a confused face. “Thought you lost it for a minute. Eyes rolled back into your head or something.” Rowan feels a prickle of embarrassment.

“No, yeah, uh. I’m fine… I guess.” Quick nods.

“’s cool,” he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. There’s still blood but not

as much as Rowan thought.

“You probably popped a vessel,” Rowan says. Quick looks at him in shock. It

takes a minute to register. “Right, I, probably popped it.” Quick nods. “Sorry. Again.”

“No worries, man,” Quick says. He’s not sure if he’s just trying to placate him, but it’s enough for now. Worse things have happened in the ring. Even worse things outside of it. Rowan tries to wipe the blood off of his face. His sweat just smears it

around. They head to the locker room.

“You gonna stay till Coach gets back?” Quick asks. He grabs a towel and soap out

of his locker. Rowan un-tapes his hands and shakes his head.

“If he doesn’t close up, someone will.” Rowan walks to the sink and gets the rest

of the blood off of his face. Quick turns on a shower. Rowan looks towards the shower.

The hissing water and creeping steam are intoxicating, but he doesn’t have stuff to

shower with here. The ride home will be long and salty.

CHAPTER IV

The door to Specialist O’Doole’s office is closed, but there’s no sign. She’s either inside or with a patient. Rowan knuckles three taps on the door.

“Specialist O’Doole?”

“Serial number?” Her voice is muffled behind the door. Her accent has gotten a little thinner since He’s known her, but it’s still undeniably Irish.

“0812206318.” He waits for her reply. After a few seconds he adds, “Uh, Rowan

Mendez. I’m your assist tonight.”

“Right, right. Come in, Rowan,” she answers. He opens the door to find her hunched over some paperwork. Her office is pretty tidy apart from the swamp of papers she’s working on.

“Sorry, I wanted to try and knock these forms out before his shift, but I got kind of lost in them. I could’ve sworn it’s only been ten minutes,” she doesn’t look at him when she speaks. Her lab coat is hanging from the back of her chair. She’s wearing lavender scrubs. Rowan thinks she’s one of the only people in the hospital who doesn’t wear the standard-issue maroon.

“It’s okay Ms. O’Doole.” He checks the built-in clock on her wall. 11:40 p.m. His watch says it’s 11:46 p.m. “Either my watch is fast, or your clock is slow.” She looks up at the clock, down at her own watch, then at Rowan.

“I got 11:46 on mine,” she says. He looks at the second sweeper on the clock. It’s not moving.

“Me too. It’s the clock. Must’ve just died a little bit ago.”

“Feck’s sake.” She exhales and rubs her forehead. “I’ll worry about it later.

Please, sit. I’ll just be another minute.” She motions towards an empty chair next to a beat-up file cabinet.

“Do we have a lot to do tonight?” Rowan asks.

“We’ve only got one scheduled Y-Ray, but the ER’s been getting really busy lately. A lot more broken bones than I’ve been used to. This is the first time He’s sat down since I’ve got here,” she sets down her pen and tucks a stray blond hair away.

“When did you get here?”

“Four. It’s only been six hours, but it’s the busiest I’ve been in a while.”

“Six hours is still a lot to be on your feet without a break.”

“Can’t argue with that.” She stretches into her chair, straightens the papers into a neat stack, and slides on her lab coat. “Well then. Why doesn’t we go practice some medicine, eh?” she asks. Rowan nods.

HOSPITAL OF THE SACRED HEART

PATIENT CHART

PATIENT: JOHNSON, BART L. D.O.B.: 07/10/1982 AGE: 58

PATIENT STATUS: Immuno-compromised. Non-invasive treatment preferred.

PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS: Acute Liver Failure (Non-cirrhotic)

INITIAL DIAGNOSIS: Leukemia

SYMPTOMS PRESENTED: Fatigue, Constant thirst, General weakness/sensitivity

TEST ORDERED: Y-Ray

They walk into a room to find a sallow-looking man. A civilian could probably

tell he has liver failure. Even the ultra-white lights of the room couldn’t wash out

lingering jaundice. His yellowed eyes stay fixed on Ms. O’Doole.

“Hello Mr. Johnson-,” she begins, but he holds his hand up.

“Please, call me Bart,” he says. She smiles and nods.

“Yes, sir. I’m Specialist Caitlyn O’Doole,” she motions to Rowan, “and this is his

assistant Rowan Mendez. We’re going to be conducting your Y-Ray test today, do you

have any questions before we begin?”

“Y-Ray?”

“It’s a special kind of X-ray. It was designed for patients with pre-existing

conditions. Not that standard X-rays can’t be done on those patients, but Dr. Combs

specifically requested this test for you as it’s the least invasive, and therefore, has the

lowest chance of exacerbating anything.”

“Is there something wrong with me that I don’t know about? I came in because of

feeling tired all the time.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. Unfortunately, that’s one of the major signs of a

seriously compromised immune system,” she looks down at his chart, “We’re not entirely

sure whether that’s the cause, or a side effect of your liver failure, but Sacred Heart is always extra precautious when it comes to our LIC patients.” The cadence of her voice makes the otherwise clinical nature of her words sound warm and comforting. It’s a breath of fresh air after working for arrogant pricks like Hale. Bart nods along with everything she says. His face relaxes a little. He seems more visibly at ease. Ms. O’Doole should teach a class on bedside manner.

“Well, let’s get on with it, then,” he says with a slight smile.

“Of course, Bart. Rowan’s gonna wheel you to the lab with me,” she says. Rowan

clicks away the brakes on the bed and the three of them make their way to the lab. Bart pulls his blanket around his arms when the frigid air in the lab hits him. Rowan puts him into the apparatus. Ms. O’Doole once said she thought it looks kind of like a tanning bed.

Now he always imagines each patient getting ready for a cruise after having a Y-Ray.

Each of the limbs get their own separate areas that can be made radio-conductive or

isolated. The rays are stronger than an X-ray but take half the time for full results. The

only draw-back is the patient needs twice the prep-work. Rowan rubs radio-protective

cream onto Bart’s flaxen skin and dresses him in the lead suit while Ms. O’Doole readies

the machine behind the glass. He makes his way to her after he’s sure that Bart is

comfortable and ready for the test. The giant X-shaped bed closes around Bart. She flips

on the intercom.

“Okay Bart, this will only take a few seconds. You’ll hear a loud whir, a few clicks, and a long beep at the end, those are just the machine. Are you still feeling okay?” she asks.

“Yes ma’am. Ready whenever you are,” he replies. Ms. O’Doole double-checks the monitor. The computer readout of the outline of the machine is blank. She activates the machine. The whir starts quietly, but gains volume quickly. Five small clicks follow.

Then the three-second completion beep. The readout lights up teal and white with numbers and patterns of Bart’s bones.

“Okay Bart, that’s it. Rowan’s going to come get you out and back into your room. Your results will be ready in a few minutes.” Bart nods his head. Rowan gets him back to his room to wait for O’Doole. He’s still shivering from being in the lab. Rowan checks the cabinets in his room for an extra blanket.

“Sorry about the lab. The low temp helps keep things sterile.” Rowan looks back at him. He shudders.

“If I never hear that word again for the rest of his life, I’d die a happy man.”

“I’m gonna go back to Ms. O’Doole. If you need anything-,”

“Yeah, yeah, just buzz.” He waves his hand to the door, “Go on, I’ll be fine.

We’re in a hospital for crying out loud.” He smiles at him. Rowan half-smiles back as he walks out.

Ms. O’Doole is studying the readouts. The shadows cast on her face aren’t too far off from the shadows on the screen. They both look ominous.

“What do you see, Rowan?” she asks. Radiology isn’t his strong suit. All the lights and shadows kind of blur together. She can see lesions smaller than needle eyes and fractures thinner than hair.

“Bart’s results?”

“Look there,” she points to a few areas in the middle of his spine and some ribs.

“Those lines? And those little specks? And how grey the edge of that rib is?”

“Not good?”

“No. Not good. The initial diagnosis was right. It’s leukemia.” Her face stays locked on the screen. She presses a few buttons, so the readouts get sent to Bart’s room.

“Page Dr. Combs. Let him know this is Pan case,” she says over the pinging sound of the results successfully sending.

“Are you sure? I thought we didn’t ring in Pan cases unless it was three-,”

“Bart’s liver failure was diagnosed less than a few weeks ago. If we wait to treat him, his bones, his kidneys, or his heart could be next. On second thought,” she sends readouts to someone else, “Make your way to Bart. I’ll page Dr. Combs and be right in,” she says.

“Do you want me to actually go over these with him?” He scans over the original readout on the screen, trying to make sense of it.

“I’ll be right behind you. Just download the readouts and if he asks anything, just say you haven’t been granted clearance to give him information.” Her voice is still as soft as if she was speaking to a patient.

“Not even his diagnosis?” Rowan watches her dial Dr. Combs’ number into her

Alert. She exhales slowly. It rings once.

“I’ll be there before he even has a chance to ask.” Dr. Combs picks up on the other end. “Patient Johnson, Bart, 71085. Initial diagnosis was confirmed.” She relays all of the info to Dr. Combs while Rowan walks out of the lab. The sharp, trilling Pan alarm rings for five seconds in the halls. The robot voice follows. MEDICAL PERSONELL

REQUESTED: COMBS, D. SCHUESTER, A. ELIAS, M. AND DEAN, F. REPORT TO

PAN UNIT. ON-CALL INTERNS WILL BE PAGED AS NEEDED.

Ms. O’Doole catches up with Rowan reach the door to his Bart’s room. Rowan starts to set up the results while she starts talking to Bart.

“Well, Bart, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“Do I need a new liver?” he asks. Rowan puts the readouts on the screen.

“Possibly,” she waits until Rowan walks out of the way of the screen, then points to the lines and spots she showed him earlier. “These readings indicate that you have leukemia.” Bart’s eyes widen. She continues when he doesn’t speak, “It’s a common form of blood cancer. I suspect that your liver failure is, in essence a side effect-,”

“I have blood cancer?” he asks.

“Yes, Bart. But thankfully, we’re able to treat-,”

“Will I need a transfusion?” His question confuses Rowan, but Ms. O’Doole’s face hardens for a second before answering.

“Most likely, Bart. Even if your liver was healthy-,”

“That can’t happen, ma’am.”

“Sir?” Her face remains hard.

“I’m a Jehovah’s witness. We’re not allowed to receive blood,” his voice starts to waver a little.

“Mr. Johnson, if you don’t have a transfusion, you more than likely won’t survive treatment.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Sir, you have a low IC score and have liver failure. Radiation therapy, surgery and chemotherapy would all require you to have a blood transfusion to minimize risk.”

“But I can still have them without blood transfusion?” He sounds hopeful.

“If your doctor is willing to do so, then yes, but you have to try to understand that you will probably not survive any kind of treatment without some kind of transfusion.”

Ms. O’Doole’s frustration starts to leak into her voice.

“I’m sorry, but just I can’t do that,” he says flatly. Ms. O’Doole’s Alert pings.

“Excuse me,” she says. She steps out into the hall and talks into the Alert. She motions for me to get Bart ready for transfer to the Pan unit. Rowan turns off the screen.

“What’s going on?” Bart asks. Rowan click the brakes off on his bed.

“We’re moving you to the Pan unit.” Rowan says.

“Why? I thought this was just cancer?”

“Your liver failure and leukemia were diagnosed very closely together, which usually means it’s a Pan case. They probably want to make sure nothing progresses.”

“What, they don’t let you in there?”

“Not without clearance, sir. You’ll be okay.” If he could become more yellow out of fear, he probably would have by now.

He stays quiet for the trip to the Pan Unit. The floor-to-ceiling poly-carbonite doors have the Sacred Heart emblem painted on right in the middle. When the doors open, it’s as if the heart itself is opening for the patient. They click and hiss open to

reveal two suited personnel, who Rowan assumes are Drs Combs and Elias waiting for

Bart.

“027361987. Mendez, Rowan, 0281556318?” Dr. Combs asks behind his mask.

“Yes sir.”

“Patient Johnson, Bart, number 71085-88184, to be released to Pan Unit personnel Combs, Daniel, by order of Specialist O’Doole, Caitlyn 027465005?”

“Yes sir.”

“Wheel him in.” Rowan take a few steps into the empty hall between the actual unit and the hospital hall. Dr. Combs thanks and dismisses him before beginning his spiel to Bart. His voice stops after the doors hiss closed behind him. Rowan stares at the

painted heart on the doors. It’s the only place where it is apart from the sign in the front

of the building. Maybe putting one on the cardiac unit would’ve been too on-the-nose.

His watch says he still has twenty minutes with Ms. O’Doole. He makes his way back to

her office.

Rowan knocks and announce himself. She tells him to just come in. Her lab coat is on the floor and her face is in her hands.

“Everything okay, Ms. O’Doole?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” She rubs her forehead and temples. Her eyes look a little red. He can’t tell if she’s tired or was about to start crying.

“You think Bart’s gonna make it?” She lets her hands fall away to show me the disgusted look on her face.

“That’s not really up to me anymore, is it?” she almost spits.

“You got him transferred to the Pan. If you didn’t do that, he probably would’ve

died faster,” he tries to neutralize her anger.

“And what’ll they do when he refuses treatment because of his fait?” her voice rang between sadness and frustration “You saw his chart, hell, you saw him. He could have all the fait he wants, it’s not going to keep his liver from failing and his leukemia from getting worse. It’d be a feckin’ miracle if he lasted more than a month without treatment.” Her accent gets a little stronger with her anger.

“Isn’t there a kind of radiotherapy that helps cancer patients?”

“He’s too high risk for that,” she gets up and starts pacing, “If he didn’t have liver failure, he might survive without a transfusion,” her hands start moving around with her words, “but that’s out of the question at this point. Unless they’ve got something in the works over in the Pan Unit.” She sits back down and pinches the top of her nose bridge.

“Could you please get me an Excedrin out of the left cabinet there?” Her voice is smaller than the pill she’s craving. Rowan grabs the nearly empty bottle and shakes out two tabs into her open hand. She puts them under her tongue and chases them with whatever’s in her thermos on her desk.

“Did you send him to the Pan because you don’t think you can do anything for him?”

“I can’t really refuse to treat a patient, but he also qualified for the Pan Unit.

They’d honestly be of more help to someone like him more than I can.” She starts scowling.

“Someone like him?” Rowan sits down across from her.

“Religious.”

“Can’t doctors override patient consent in Pan cases?”

“Would I be any better than he is if I treated him against his will?”

“You’d be saving his life.”

“By refusing treatment, he’s telling me he doesn’t want me to save his life.” She closes her eyes and rubs them gently. She sniffles quickly as she takes a breath in. Rowan doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone besides an intern openly cry.

“Ma’am?” he asks softly. She exhales.

“I’m fine, Rowan.” She looks at me and continues, “Did you know that only registered, practicing Catholics can be medical personnel in Ireland? You literally have to pass exams on being a good Catholic before you’re even allowed into medical school.

People are only allowed practice medicine if they’re sanctioned by the church. Medical school is already expensive, then you have to pay for the bullshite religious exams, tutors and extra schooling if you don’t pass.”

“How’s that fair?”

“It’s not, and Ireland’s not the only country that does it. A lot of faith healers make just as much money as I do. Sometimes more. Without a lick of medical school. It’s feckin’ appalling.”

“Do they know that people die without actual medical care?” She scoffs.

“Better to die in God’s good graces than live by the hands of a non-believer.” She stares down at her desk with the heaviest eyes Rowan’s ever seen. He can’t blame her for feeling so defeated. It’s one thing to do everything you can for a patient and come up short. At least then, you can say you did your best. But for a patient to refuse care for any reason has to be frustrating beyond reason. He tries to find an answer for her, but all he

can think about is his break. He checks his watch again. 12:13 am. He wants another

WakeD already. Ms. O’Doole notices and checks her watch, too.

“Am I keeping you from your break?” she asks with sincerity.

“Oh no, not really. I’m still technically in his half-hour limbo. Do you need his help with anything else?”

“No, thank you,” she shakes her head with a smirk on her face. She nods her head towards her office door and adds, “Go ahead and take your break. I’m sure you’re ready to get off your feet for a while.” Her frustration abated enough to make her accent thinner. Rowan smiles at her and stand up.

“Thank you very much, Ms. O’Doole,” he says. He wishes her goodnight as it hisses closed behind him.

CHAPTER V

Rowan speed walks to the breakroom so other personnel think he’s headed somewhere important and doesn’t try to flag him down. With any luck, he’ll be alone, can finish his homework and have a little time to catch his breath. He contemplates taking a half dose of WakeD, then remembers all the coffee he’s had so far. He codes open the door and finds Jacob with a look of severe thinking on his face.

“Long time no see there, friend,” Rowan says. Jacob looks up at me and his scowl breaks into relief.

“Hey… Rowan, right?” he asks. Rowan nods. “How’s your shift been?” Rowan heads towards the cabinet where he stashed his bookbag.

“Here and there. Surgery. Radiology. Now I’m here.” He fishes out his bag and sits across from Jacob at the worn, circular table. “You?”

“Not bad, not bad. I kind of lucked out and got to assist on something that we’re covering in class.”

“Damn, that’s the best. What is it?”

“Corrective rhinoplasty. Someone came in with a really busted nose. Like, it was hanging on by, like a thread of tissue. They got her into surgery, and I was on call, so I got to help out.” He seems so jazzed. It’s almost infectious.

“That’s awesome,” Rowan starts taking out his laptop and respiratory textbook for his homework. Jacob looks at the book for a second.

“Do you go to Hipps too?” he asks with more jazz. He can’t mean what Rowan thinks he means.

“Hipps?”

“Hippocrates School of Modern Medicine?” Holy hell, he does mean what he thought he meant. HSMM is the Ivy-est of medical schools. People have better luck getting into Stanford.

“Hard no. Don’t you have to come from a pure-blooded line of medical professionals to even apply?” His voice is equal parts sarcasm and reluctant envy.

“Not really. I mean, yeah, having connections helps, but I got in because of my

MCATs.” His face and tone are a bit sheepish. Rowan feels guilty about possibly hurting his feelings.

“You some kind of genius?” He tries to use his jokiest voice. Jacob smiles a little.

“No. I just paid attention and studied.”

“I paid attention and studied but only got an eighty-nine average,” he continues to joke, but Jacob’s face gets sheepish again. “What?”

“Promise you won’t freak out?” he asks. Rowan nods. “I got a perfect score.

Across the board,” he says not looking at Rowan. Rowan’s eyes go so wide they hurt.

“You’re serious?” he asks. Jacob nods.

“I’m not a genius, Rowan, I-,”

“Dude, no one’s-.”

“No one’s ever gotten a perfect score, I know, I know,” He shoots his face up to look at me. “No one believed it-heck, I-I didn’t believe it at first. I was okay in school.

Okay, maybe a little better at science, but whatever. They thought I cheated, bribed someone, you name it. They made me retake the test. Twice. All five sections plus pharmacy and surgery. But I kept getting the same one hundred score.” A few heavy beats of silence pass. Rowan tries not to freak out, but he’s sitting across from a bona fide statistical anomaly. What would Isaac do? Make a joke.

“I may not be a doctor yet, but I’m pretty sure I can diagnose you with ‘Genius’,

Jacob.” He adds a little laugh and pats his shoulder. Jacob sighs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head.

“I mean, maybe. But I still have to work at it. You’d think geniuses can just fart out amazing work, right? I worked so hard for that test all three times. I barely ate or slept. I work hard for everything. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Everything takes work, dude. But that’s so cool. You’re like a modern miracle,”

Rowan says sincerely. He laughs deeply.

“You sound like my mom,” he stretches his arms over his head, “She thinks I’m

God’s gift to medicine. Like, yeah, on paper. But I don’t know how that’ll translate into actual practice.”

“Well, you got into Hipps and you’re interning in medicine already. How do you think it’s working?” Rowan asks. Jacob takes a minute to think.

“Fine, I guess? There’s still so much I need to know on top of the so much that people expect of me. My folks expect me to be working with them in like two years.”

“Are they in medicine too?”

“Mom’s an OBG and dad’s a malpractice lawyer. Both for PharmaCo though.”

Jacob waits for Rowan to show signs of shock or disgust or intrigue. More and more people work for PharmaCo every day. What’s another two?

“So, you’re working here because?” Rowan asks.

“I want to help all sick people, not just rich sick people who can afford

PharmaCo.”

“Your folks cool with that?”

“For the most part, yeah. I mean, they keep telling me that they can get me a job in one of the Triages, but I convinced them that I just wanted to ‘prove myself’ without their help.”

“Wish I could afford to do that.”

“I barely can. Living with them helps a lot. And I can-” Julie glides into the breakroom before Jacob can finish what he was going to say. She looks less spent than when Rowan first saw her, but still spent, nonetheless.

“Hey Jules,” Rowan says.

“Hey Rowan,” she looks at him, then at Jacob “Hey Jake,” she adds. Jacob nods and waves once.

“You finally going home?” he asks.

“Yep. Dad’s gonna be discharged in like an hour. I just came for my lunchbox.”

She heads for the fridge.

“Didn’t he only get here like twelve hours ago?” Jacob asks.

“Yeah, but he’s stable and all his tests came back clean. No immediate danger.

Plus, he’s not a Pan case, so they wanna free up the bed for someone else who might be,”

she answers.

“Sorry I never brought you that coffee. Looked like you needed it pretty bad when

I came to see your dad.” Rowan says.

“It’s cool but I don’t think it would’ve helped by then anyway,” She turns to face

them and leans against the counter. “Next time.”

“The pot’s fresh if you want one now,” Jacob says.

“Is it the generic?” she asks.

“No, it’s the, uh… uh, you know, the one with the green label?” he answers.

Rowan thinks he means the Green Mountain. The left side of Jules’s face scrunches in thought for a beat. She hums a confirmation and pours herself a cup of coffee. She leans

back on the counter.

“Thanks for checking on his dad, Rowan.”

“Yeah, sure. Seems like a good guy,” he says. She smiles.

“He’s got his moments. He mentioned you stopped by. Said you guys talked

about his time in the army.”

“Yeah, I mentioned Isaac,”

“He didn’t talk your ear off, did he? He gets lost in the past,”

“Nah. Even if he wanted to, I didn’t really have time to let him,” he tries to

reassure her. She nods.

“I see. Either way, that was cool of you.” She takes a slow sip of her coffee before

she lids it. “You’re like a boy-scout, I swear,” she says with a small laugh. He throws up,

what he thinks is a scout salute. He hates being called that. Jacob chuckles along with

Julie. She grabs her lunchbox, says goodbye and leaves. Jacob goes back to his homework almost immediately. Rowan tries to follow suit, but ends up just trying to see what part of the textbook Jacob’s in. It doesn’t look like he’s looking at plastic surgery.

He debates looking through his various syllabi to see if he’ll ever cover plastic surgery.

“So, are you guys covering anything interesting?” Jacob interrupts his thoughts.

He scans through the book’s edge for his bookmark.

“Lung diseases.” Rowan imagines Isaac’s face on top of the textbook’s patient illustration.

“You’re still doing pulmonary?” Jacob asks as he reads.

“It’s part of my DiVIn. class.” Rowan tries to multi-task like Jacob. They make small talk while they work.

“Oh, right,” Jacob haphazardly flips through the textbooks, “I think we cover diseases or infections until year two.” He seems a bit sheepish. He tries to hide it by working

“You’re doing plastic surgery before contagious diseases?” Rowan reads a line about alveoli damage.

“Kind of. It’s a big surgery unit, kinda got a bit of everything all at once,” he searches Rowan for a reaction. He doesn’t find one and continues, “I know, it’s weird and stupid.” Rowan mulls it over for a minute.

“I mean, I think I get it. It’s like a general surgeries unit?”

“Yeah. I don’t mind though. I’d rather focus on surgery anyway.” He would take

literally anyone over working with Hale, but he imagines Jacob would actually be fun to

work it. “You?” he asks Rowan.

“I’m kinda between pharmacy and PD’ing.”

“Oh, I’m into Pharmacy too. Why do you wanna PD?”

“Decent money,” he says without thinking. It’s true but Jacob looks a little off

put. We’re not artists, man. Living in a Pandemic is expensive. Rowan tries to backtrack,

“And my brother,” Jacob’s face regains some sympathy. “He’s a Pan patient.” Jacob’s

face is fully of sympathy now.

“I’m so sorry, Rowan.” His tone is genuinely apologetic. “Is he okay?” That’s somehow such a weird and normal question to ask these days.

“He’s hanging in there. Lung and kidney failure so far.” They nod at each other.

Rowan feels like Jacob can tell he was drafted. He wonders how much of Jacob’s work is

by choice. “What about you?” He asks.

“Hmm?”

“Got any siblings or anything?”

“A sister. Ana. She’s eight.”

“Is she a Pan patient?”

“No, no, thank god.” Jacob lets out a soft chuckle, “But she’s still got issues.” He

focuses on his work. Rowan tries to read the heading. He catches what he thinks is,

‘Epidermolysis bullosa’. There’s a flicker of deep sadness in Jacob’s eyes. He writes

something down in a workbook. Whatever that is, it’s probably close to what Ana might

have. They keep talking between bits of homework and sips of coffee.

Jacob gets to leave and clock out first. Rowan still has half of his docket to

complete before he can do the same.

The hospital’s ER alarm pings five times. The robot voice is the same, but less urgent. All available on-call interns please report to Trauma. Rowan groans out of exhaustion. Then he remembers there’s a pharm counter on the way. He decides to hit it on the way back from the call for a WakeD.

He hears some diagnosis happening around the corner from a voice he doesn’t immediately recognize.

“Patient ran into the Admissions door three times. No ID, but DNA records indicate her name is Marsha Way. Thirty-two. Pupils completely dilated. Multiple lacerations, bruising on both arms, legs, face, and neck. Three bone fractures. Two breaks,” Rowan walks in on O’Doole and two other staff members that are trying to get the patient into the remaining bed restraints. She recognizes Rowan, giving him implied clearance, and asks him to hurry. He tries to help, but the patient won’t stop thrashing her clearly broken arms around. Her legs are already mottled with old and new bruises. They twitch and writhe against the ankle restraints. The scrapes and slashes are weeping iron red into the powder blue sheets. Her broken and in-tact bones pop and groan out of synch with her ragged breathing and hissing.

Rowan manages to keep her left arm down long enough to be restrained, all while she’s trying to punch him with her free arm. O’Doole quickly snatches and restrains it. If she’s feeling any pain from touches or the restraints, she’s not showing it. Her yelps and groans could be out of protest rather than pain. She’s starting to foam at the mouth. Pink

froth stripped with more iron red leaks down her chin and into the gown’s collar hem. A

few of her teeth look broken from what little glimpses the staff can get into her mouth.

Her entire face is beaten nearly beyond a human resemblance. Her head twitches and lolls

haphazardly around her track marked neck. No use asking if she wants to look away

while they give her an IV. One of the ER staff finally tries to talk to her.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, can you tell us what your name is?” she asks. The patient spits

out the froth and tries to steady her head.

“Marrssshh,” she hisses. More restrained twitching and thrashing.

“Marsh?” O’Doole asks.

“Ma-Marsshh… Marshaaa-,” her voice creaks like an angry old door.

“Okay, Marsha, we’re gonna give you an IV with something to help you calm

down, okay?” The other staff member asks. Marsha nods, maybe. She blinks hard while

the IV is administered. She manages to hold somewhat still. A syringe with Ativan gets

mainlined into the IV. A few beats pass. Or a few hundred in Marsha’s case. Her

heartbeat is nearing two-hundred BPM. 198. 196. 195. 196. 194. 190. 188. 180. Her

breathing slows down in duo with her heartbeat. She stills. Her eyes fall closed. She lets

out a long exhale. 175. 169. 142. 130. 119. 100. 89. Her chest doesn’t rise back up.

“Marsha?” Rowan asks. She starts flatlining. O’Doole and company try to get a

response. One of them tries CPR. Rowan turns on the defibrillator. Marsha’s chest gets

transdermal patches on her sternum and apex. He grabs the paddles at puts them on the

patches. Someone asks for 160 Jz. The machine rings out a few pitches higher than the

heart rate monitor. Rowan looks at O’Doole who’s now across from him. Her eyes go

behind him, then back.

“You’re clear,” she says.

“Clear,” Rowan repeats. Marsha’s body jumps a little. Still flatling. 180 Jz. More

ringing. Another shock. Still flatlining. 200 Jz. More ringing. Another shock. Flatline. He

takes the paddles away. Her time of death is clocked at 4:26 a.m. Rowan moves the paddles further away from Marsha’s body. One of the ER staff takes them and turns off the defibrillator. Caitlyn sighs in defeat.

“You did good, Rowan,” she says. Rowan tries to meet her eyes but can’t lift

them away from Marsha. Her chest convulses once. Then again. Her monitor shows no

signs of life. Another convulsion. He wonders if the machine is faulty. Her whole body

starts thrashing under the restraints again. Her eyes shoot open. Her pupils are still

completely dilated. The heart monitor still reads zero. She can’t have any oxygen flow to

her brain. Marsha’s body stays animated for another three seconds before collapsing back

onto the bed. They check her for and confirm brain death. A few vials of her blood are taken. Rowan tries to close her lids. They’re still warm.

The staff member that drew the blood orders for the body to be taken in for

testing. There’s no way Marsha signed off on that, but it’s too late now. Rowan gets

assigned to get her trip rolling. First, he has to take her blood vials to toxicology.

Someone else will get her body to the morgue until the lab is ready for her. She probably

won’t be ready for embalming for another week thanks to all of the traffic.

He speeds up his gait to the cooler in case she reanimates again. He clutches the

bag with her blood vials to keep them from moving around too much. This cooler could

have been anything before the Pan hit. Now it’s just a halfway point for corpses to wait

until they can go to the lab or the actual morgue for an autopsy. A Necro-filing cabinet.

There’s no proper door, so much as a long compartment in the wall to feed the bodies

into. They get automatically sorted and filed until someone is ready for them. Like sodas

in a vending machine. He checks her wrist tag and punches her number into the keypad.

The slot adjusts to fit her dimensions, pings twice and opens.

Deposit body now.

Rowan slides the gurney horizontally into the slot. A thin slab slides underneath

her and lifts her up enough for him to remove the gurney.

Please remove the patient transport.

He removes it cautiously. The slot closes and pings twice.

Patient Way, Marsha. Retrieval ID 04263409. Thank you.

He checks the label stuck to the vial case and scan the code. The number matches

so he can pick her up later. He contemplates getting a soda at some point, too.

Rowan didn’t bother to check who was working the tox lab tonight. He shouts his

ID and clearance code through the door even though they’re expecting him. The deposit

compartment next to the door lights up green. He deposits the vials in exchange for a suit.

The lab door opens after he’s suited. A few suits are working in isolated plexi-glass

cubicles. The cube furthest to his left calls for him.

“02845681, Johns. You’re 0281556318?” the suit asks. It sounds like a male

voice.

“Affirmative,” Rowan says to be safe.

“You were just working with O’Doole?”

“Affirmative.”

“Patient Way, Marsha. Time of death: 04:26 am?”

“Affirmative.”

“What happened out there?” he sounds less clinical.

“Patient came in confused, convulsions, foaming at the mouth, fractures, lacerations,”

“Trouble speaking, rapid heart-rate, violent?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve seen this before?”

“Not myself, but some of my colleagues have been getting patients like this lately.

I think this was the first one that came in alone though,” he started setting up his tests.

“What do you mean?”

“Usually, they’re deposited. Most of them post-mortem but the few times we get verbal evidence it’s all been the same.” He drops dots of the blood into vials and onto various test patches. Some stay the same, others change color. “Yep, see that?” He points to a vial and paper. Rowan thinks he only recognizes one.

“Adderall?” he asks.

“Yep. And meth, organic and synthetic adrenaline, diazepam, nifedipine… I could go on. It’s a chemical H-Bomb of stimulants, pain and anxiety suppressors, vasodilators,”

“Some kind of new party drug?”

“I wouldn’t wish this party on his worst enemy. This stuff makes WakeD look like a low-dose Klonopin.” A trickle of shame goes down Rowan’s neck.

“Who would take something like this?” he asks.

“Beats me. Why do junkies want heroin? Probably gives you an amazing, productive high. Makes you feel invincible and forget that you can die.”

“Is it worth dying for?”

“To a junkie, probably. Then again you don’t really need to sell that hard.”

Rowan nods in agreement. They spend more time calculating the precise amounts of the buffet of drugs in Marsha’s blood. Jacob would probably get a kick out of this. He’s more into pharmacy than Rowan is. Every now and then Johns makes impressed noises and comments like, ‘Whoever mixed this stuff is a pharmaceutical prodigy.’, ‘This is legendary.’, ‘Worth its weight in gold.’ That one really doesn’t sit right with Rowan.

Drugs cost money. The purer the drug, the more expensive it is. But this thing is compound upon compound of PharmaCo grade medicine. Just half of the list of this bomb would sell for a grand a dose at WellMart. He doesn’t know what she looked like before she took it, but he doesn’t think someone like Marsha could afford this. Maybe some rando cook hit the jackpot in his bathtub mixing cleaning products and the contents

of expired medicine cabinets. If you don’t know how much something is worth, there’s

no way to really sell it at the right price. Then again, maybe people aren’t paying with

money. Marsha’s body probably has more pieces to this puzzle. She might have sold

some organs and tissue for the bomb. Rowan asks Johns if he still needs him. He waves

him off to get Marsha to the lab for more tests.

CHAPTER VI

Rowan walks out of Sacred Heart to a city that’s just starting to wake up. The sky is still dark, but clear. All the streetlights, a gas station, and a few windows in the high- rises are lit up. He waits for his bus under the yellow glow of a graffitied streetlight. The

WakeD is starting to wear down. His jaw feels a little loose and the skin around his eyes weighs more than it did when he started his shift. He takes a deep inhale of the damp early morning air to try and clear his nose from the shower smell. Sacred Heart’s hospital-grade sterilization solution stings the eyes worse than domestic-grade if you’re not careful to keep your eyes tightly closed until after the water rinse and O2 dry. The soap smells like Gold Dial. He’s almost positive it is just Gold Dial. No matter how many times he’s been in and out of these showers, that smell still clings to him, and he smells it until something stronger comes along. There’s probably Gold Dial articulate collecting on his nose-hairs. Three things will always survive an apocalypse: Cockroaches,

Twinkies, and Gold Dial. It’s almost as awful as the Earl Grey smell from WakeD. The bus whooshes up in the tube in front of Rowan. He’s got about three hours until he has to be in class. His Alert pings. He opens it up to find an email from his cardio professor.

Hello everyone.

Just wanted to let you all know that there will be no class today as his wife went into labor last

night. We’re still at the hospital but she’s doing fine. Please remember to have your essays in before

midnight tonight, otherwise they will be considered late. No new discussion boards until next week.

All the best,

Dr. Kay

Sweet. Now he has five hours until he has to be in class. He’ll finally be able to finish

that nap. He’s tempted to check on Isaac, but he chewed Rowan’s head off last time he

called him before eleven in the morning. He double checks his Alert. Nothing from him

since yesterday. His vitals look normal. Yeah, he can call if he needs something, right?

The darkened city whizzes by outside of the plastic tube. Next time he’s on the bus, the city should be awake.

Next stop, Harrington Avenue.

Rowan see the turquoise neon sign in the distance “WellMart Discount Medical Supply:

Wholesale Supply. PharmaCo Quality. WellMart Prices”. The harsh white walls stretch across at least two of storefront. Everything from bandages to gently used, transplant- ready organs. Rowan spots some specialists milling about in their respective field color scrubs. A few doctors in their suits and color-coded ties. But it’s mostly students, families, and the odd seedy character looking to sell an auxiliary kidney or piece of worn- in lung tissue. The usual. The lights inside are hyper-fluorescent, making the white walls and floors even whiter, except for the UV supply area which always has that characteristic purple glow.

Rowan walks in and grab a heavy-duty pallet cart. All he needs are a few oxygen

tanks, some new tubing, and tissues. He carts past a big, gaudy display in the front of the

store with a sign that reads, “BUY ONE GET ONE SALE: Steri-Spray™!!!” Last he

checked, they were stocked on shower supplies. He passes the display and head straight for the respiratory section. Snippets of conversations comparing brands of gauze, checking chemical concentrations in solutions, and so on roll in and out of his peripheral hearing. All of the employees are suited in WellMart’s turquoise Haz-Med suits. One of them asks him if he needs help finding anything as he passes the dermatology and cosmetic area. Rowan waves him off, making sure to show his laminated Sacred Heart badge in his hand. No one bothers personnel unless they start to poke around in Multi-

Pan clearance areas. Dr. Weisman once gave him temporary Multi-Pan clearance to pick up a set of specific test-tubes a while back. He still had security eyeing him the entire time he was in the Pan area.

Rowan uses his clearance to get Isaac the hospital sized MMM tanks. He carefully lifts and load two onto the cart’s deck. He takes a second to catch his breath. If they can’t cure the Pan anytime soon, they can at least work on making these tanks a bit lighter.

Rowan moves the cart forward into the accessories area for the tubing. He grabs a green- tinted bundle and toss it next to the green tanks. He pushes a little further forward to look for some green cannulae to complete the set. He sees one bag of them left, but a small hand beats him to them. A little girl carting around a small, pink oxygen tank takes the bag to her mom a few feet away.

“Mommy, can I have these ones?” Her voice is full of throat irritation.

“Oh honey, I think these are too big for you.” She says to the girl. The girl starts to look sad. Her mom adds, “Besides, I think that young man over there wanted these, too.” She looks over at Rowan.

“Oh, it’s okay. I can get another bag.” He looks down at the little girl, “I like your

tank.” She smiles and hides behind her mom’s leg. Mom giggles.

“Are you sure? I do think these are a little big,” she says.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he replies. “But,” he quickly looks back at the cannulae

on the shelves. He notices a bag of child-sized purple ones and grab it. “I think she might like these ones even better.” He offers the bag to mom.

“Wow Casey, look. The nice man found you some purple nose pieces. These’ll go much better with your pretty pink tank.” She exaggerates her excitement the way all

parents do. The girl peeks up from behind her leg at the bag. He kneels to get to her eye-

level.

“Y’know, purple’s my favorite color. I wish I could wear these cannulas,” he

says. The little girl giggles behind her mom’s knee.

“Cammulah. Whas that?” Casey asks. Rowan stands back up.

“These thingies,” he shakes the bag, “Can-yoo-lah.” Casey giggles more.

“Cam-yuh-laaa,” she almost sings, “Thas silly.”

“Yeah, it kind of is.” He smiles at her.

“What do you think, honey? You think you can give the nice man the green

ones?” Mom asks. Casey doesn’t answer, but she juts the bag out from her hiding spot,

her little hand still clutching the empty space on top.

“Hey, thanks.” Rowan takes the bag from her, careful not to touch her hand.

“Thank you,” the mom says to hum.

“Yeah, no problem.” He waves at them as they walk off into another part of the

store. He tosses the cannulae onto the cart and wheels it to the cashier.

He gets checked out a bit slower than usual, but they have his purchase set to be

delivered in a half hour. He looks past the WellMart’s parking lot for somewhere to get a

quick bite. It’s 7:23 in the morning. There’s CircleK across the street. Gas station

breakfast it is.

There’s a worn out ‘Feeling Sick? Suit Up!” sign on the automatic door. The only

girl working has a surgical mask on. She’s filing her nails behind the register with a

bored look on her face. The whole store smells like linoleum and rubbing alcohol.

There’s a yellow suit looking at the beer fridge. He’s sure this place is cleaner than it ever

was before the Pan, but something about it still feels like a gas station. Rowan takes a

moment of comfort in that before he heads straight for the heated shelves. It must be his

lucky day. Only one burrito left with no Casey in sight. He grabs it, pays, and waits for

the next bus home. He unwraps the warm, squishy burrito and takes a bite. There’s no

way these beans are actually beans, but they’re seasoned. What with? He’s not sure he

wants to know. The tortilla turns into paste after one chew. He thinks it’s supposed to

have bacon in it. He checks the wrapper while he crunches on what he hopes are bits of

over-cooked pork. The wrapper lists eggs, beans, cheese, and, to his relief, bacon. He

finishes the burrito in as few bites as possible, so he doesn’t have to linger on it any

longer than necessary. His stomach feels sated for now. He hopes he doesn’t regret it

later.

Rowan beats the WellMart delivery truck home by just a few minutes. He signs

for the tanks and shower. Isaac and Rowan tag-team taking in and setting up his tank. His

strength hasn’t seemed to wane much, which is always a good sign. Rowan unseals the

tank and gets the gauge on, then he connects the tubing and fits his cannula on his face.

He turns the oxygen on when Isaac’s settled. It hisses to life and he breathes in deeply for a few breaths.

“Thanks Row.” His breathing is back to normal. Rowan sinks into the couch next to him.

“So how was work?” He asks. Marsha’s amorphous face and twitching body flash behind his eyes.

“It was a lot. I had two assists and like four hours nursing and on call time.”

Rowan puts his hands over his face.

“You guys get breaks, right?”

“Yeah, but all the students get together and work on homework. Met a new guy today though. Seems like an okay dude.” His voice gets muffled under his hands. Rowan takes them away and breathes. He wonders what Jacob’s up to for a second.

“Neeeeerds.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Tech and Engineering was popular with the cool kids.”

“Well, I’m cool, and that’s what I studied.” He gets ready to throw a pillow at

Rowan, but then his stomach growls, “Shit, I should eat.”

“Please tell me you haven’t lost your appetite,” Rowan says only half sarcastically.

“I woke up like ten minutes before you came home. Didn’t have time to realize I was hungry.”

“I’ll go check the kitchen.” He walks into the kitchen and cracks open the fridge.

Carton of eggs. Expired milk. Bag of dry baby carrots. Half empty jar of Pico de Gallo.

Cheese.

“Remind me to go grocery shopping next time I’m out,” he calls to Isaac from the kitchen. He goes for the cupboards next. Tortillas. Canned vegetables. Popcorn. Cheez-

Its. Black beans. Tomato puree.

“We out of food?” Isaac asks.

“Just about.” Rowan focuses on the beans. Holy shit, he could make huevos rancheros. “I got something, though,” he adds. “Gimme a few minutes.”

“I could go shopping while you’re at school today. I got a suit,” Isaac says.

Rowan hears his voice coming closer to the kitchen. He opens and washes the beans in the sink.

“You sure you’re up for that? You didn’t seem so hot when I left earlier. Those tanks aren’t exactly portable,” he says. He points to the fridge, “Can you grab the eggs?”

“I should be okay. If I sit with the tank for two or three hours, I should be good for at least that much off, right? Get my saturation up to ninety or so?” His voice sounds hopeful. Rowan’s sure he’s probably stir crazy. He hands Rowan the eggs.

“You mind grabbing the Pico and cheese?” Rowan asks. He returns with everything plus a can of avocado puree.

“Hell, how’d I miss this?” Rowan says.

“Dunno. I know you like avocados with your eggs.” He sits at the table.

“Oh, I’m not hungry.” Rowan gets a pan on the stove.

“What’d you eat?”

“I got a burrito from the CircleK.” Pico and tomatoes get mixed with some chili powder and extra pepper.

“And you didn’t bring me one? I thought we had something special.”

“They only hand one left, and trust me, it wasn’t worth it.” The tortillas go on first for a few minutes. Beans and eggs are up next in the pan.

“Good.” His voice is firm enough to actually sound serious to anyone who doesn’t know any better. Rowan checks the beans for warmth before scooping them onto the empty tortilla. He spreads the Pico sauce on the opposite side and scoops out the avocado while the eggs finish. His mouth is starting to water. He struggles to remember the last time they had some actual homemade food. The beans get covered with some cheese, then the eggs, and finally the avocado puree. What he wouldn’t do for a lime right now.

He throws some salt and pepper onto the eggs before taking the whole affair to Isaac. He sets the steaming plate in front of him at the table. Isaac moves his cannula and takes a deep whiff.

“Smells pretty promising.” He smashes the beans and pokes a yolk open, then swirls the two together before placing a forkful of the mix and the Pico onto his tortilla.

He folds it in half before the contents can spill out and takes a bite. He chews quickly at first, but then slows to a near stop.

“Man,” he says out of the free half of his mouth. He sighs, swallows, and shakes his head.

“What, that bad?” Rowan asks.

“No dude, it- it just tastes like mom’s.” He and Rowan sit in silence for a long minute. Mom’s memory makes the air feel heavy. Rowan could swear he hears her

calling the two of them to come eat breakfast. It’s easier to joke about dad. He made a joke about everything. Mom was their anchor. They nearly fell apart when she got sick.

Dad tried to help. He got her sickness, which turned out to be the flu, which turned out to be pneumonia, which turned out to be lung failure.

They might have made it had the infection stayed localized to their lungs. But it spread to their adrenal glands. Then their hearts.

School started a few weeks after the funeral. Rowan’s been busy with schoolwork and work-work ever since.

Isaac’s eyes won’t leave his plate. His straight face looks like mom’s. Rowan’s stomach starts aching as if it forgot the fact that he ate less than an hour ago.

“You still wish I brought you a burrito?” Rowan asks. Isaac laughs.

“Hell no, man.” He tears into the rest of his food. Rowan’s stomach growls out in jealousy. He makes himself a plate, and Isaac a second. Time speeds and slows all at once while he eats. He should try and savor the food, but the stress and exhaust in his body keep his hands and mouth working to ingest every last calorie. The huevos rancheros have all but vanished into a puff of magician smoke when Rowan snaps out of his eating trance. He breathes in and out deeply through his mouth.

“Damn,” Rowan says. Isaac laughs.

“Y’need a cigarette there, killer?” He asks. Rowan laughs back at him.

“When’s the last time you’ve seen me smoke?”

“It’s been a while. I’d say you’ve earned one,” he says without a trace of irony. A hot crash of anger beats through his whole body.

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve been smoking?” Rowan asks in a little less than a

shout.

“Jesus, hell no, Rowan. I’m not an idiot. I was gonna ask if you wanted me to get you a pack. For old time’s sake.” He still sounds like he’s joking. Rowan gets angrier without any kind of consent. That felt like kind of a low blow. They used to go to Circle

K whenever they felt stir crazy. Rowan would buy snacks and slushies and Isaac would buy him a pack of menthols. Rowan tried to quit when mom and dad got sick, but it only made him sick with withdrawal. The hacking coughs, the fog, the headaches, and the mood swings weren’t exactly inconspicuous. If they ever knew, they never lead on.

Despite how shitty it all felt, the smokes helped him keep some semblance of sanity. He only quit for good because of med school.

“No, dude. If I get randomly tested and come back positive for nicotine, I’m out of work for at least a month,” He answers as calmly as he can. There’s still a thin edge of annoyance.

“For a cigarette?” He asks. Why does he keep bringing it up? Fucking asshole.

Rowan can’t afford to crave again.

“For anything. Med personnel can’t be at risk for anything, much less addiction.”

“I guess that makes sense, but-,” Rowan fucking hates when he gets talked over.

“Fuck off, man. You don’t get it,” he snaps. Isaac’s unphased. How? Rowan has no clue. Maybe lung failure took away his shock reflex.

“If they lost you, they’d be done for,” his tone is earnest and cheery, and it irks

Rowan beyond reason.

“Oh sure, it’s not like the Medical Draft ended and they couldn’t replace me in a

minute,” His nails pinch his palm skin. He didn’t realize he was clenching his fists. He

tries to stop ranting. “Hell, there’s a guy at Sacred Heart who’s a god damn genius and

he’s still just a god damn intern. He could be a surgeon by next month if he really wanted

to, and they’d replace him if they needed to. You’d think a vet would understand expendability,” he adds. Mission failed. Isaac looks furious for a split second, then stands up and raises his hands in a placating gesture.

“Okay, okay, easy Row.” He takes a tentative step towards him, “I’m sorry.

Really.” Rowan guesses Isaac wouldn’t be an older brother if he didn’t at least try to get under his skin once in a while. Isaac puts his hand on Rowan’s shoulder. Rowan exhales slowly.

“It’s fine,” Rowan says honestly. He’s still annoyed, but he doesn’t want to expend energy on being upset anymore. He starts craving the WakeD numbness. Crashes and weird smells aside, it definitely makes it easier for him to keep calm.

“It’s just… I see how hard you’re working, and I dunno. It sucks,” he says and crosses his arms.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, like, I dunno, you’ve been looking so washed out all the time. I know you’re doing your best, but your best amounts to fuck all if you’re wasting away in the process.” Rowan looks down at his hands and forearms. He could’ve sworn he was a little tanner and had more muscle. His wrist bones and knuckles are straining against his skin. He stands up and walks to the bathroom. He meets his reflection properly. Isaac was right. Rowan has racoon bruises under his dull brown eyes. The creases in his face look

deeper than they ought to be for a twenty-year old. Even his hair looks like shit despite all

the showers. Probably because of the showers. He runs a hand through it only to find out

it’s become dry and kind of coarse. He contemplates biotin supplements and keratin

conditioner. Rowan sees Isaac’s reflection a few seconds later. Isaac was really right.

He’s battling kidney and lung failure but looks healthier than Rowan does. He’s

somehow retained some of his muscle mass. His hair has some shine to it. His skin looks

a little pale, but still better than Rowan’s. A quiet suspicion of whether or not he was the

better-looking Mendez this whole time comes and goes in a second.

“I hate it when you’re right,” Rowan says to their reflections.

“I know, Row. I know,” his reflection says back to Rowan’s. He pats Rowan on

the back. He checks his watch without thinking about it. 9:43 am. He has to be in class in less than three hours. He looks back at Isaac before he leaves the bathroom. He goes back

to starting at his ghost reflection. Plates are clinking around in the sink in the kitchen.

Rowan decides to make his way back into the living room. He falls back first into the

couch and kicks his feet up onto the arm. Isaac asks if he wants anything else out of the

kitchen before, he comes back out. Rowan doesn’t. He makes a noise proclaiming as

much.

“I’m gonna try to take a power nap,” he says in Isaac’s general direction. He

shrugs as he walks past the archway between the kitchen and living room. He heads to his

room, returns with his headphones dangling around his neck.

“I’ll try to be quiet.” he says. The Mortal Kombat 11 menu screen music hisses on

quietly on the tv before Isaac switches the audio over to his headphones. He heads right

for the online fight menu. Rowan pretends to double check the alarm on his watch. His

eyes can’t stay off of the screen while Jade and Sub-Zero fight. Isaac’s gotten so much better since the last time they played. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t even really remember the last time they played video games. Or did anything besides make small talk, eat a rushed meal, or worry about Isaac’s medical care together. He looks down at his watch for a second. When he looks back up, Jade’s making a few moves. Then the screen darkens as she does her amazing impalement Fatality. Isaac’s face looks somewhere between satisfaction and boredom.

“GG, man. You want another?” he says quietly. He looks over at Rowan and sees that he’s still awake. He mouths ‘Everything okay?’. Rowan hears someone call him

‘Bubble Boy’ from his headphones. Rowan sits up off the couch and then down next to

Isaac’s beanbag.

“Mind if I jump in?” he asks. Isaac smirks and nods.

“Hey, yo, his brother wants to tag in. That cool?” A beat. ‘Mini Bubble Boy?

Sure’. “Fuck off, he’s a doctor,” he hands Rowan the controller. “But go easy on him.

He’s probably a little rusty,” he says into his mic. Rowan takes the controller and rolls his eyes.

“You want Jade or someone else?” Isaac asks.

“I’m fine with Jade. She’s badass.” Rowan keep his eyes on the screen. Round

One. Fight. The match begins before he can react and Sub-Zero hits me with a knife and ice-hammer quick combo.

“Wait! Fuck! No!” He tries to gain some defensive footing in the fight before he gets completely spanked. Isaac tries to stifle a laugh. He elbows him. The first match whips by before he can really process it. Jade’s health bar is gone. She picks herself back

up for the next round. Round Two. Fight. Rowan goes on the defensive to see if he can

wait Sub-Zero out. His opponent knows the combos but doesn’t have a lot of style. Jade

was only his third favorite back in the day, but he manages to crank out some of her tried

and true staff attacks. Sub-Zero’s health takes a decent hit. He’s got a shot. They go back

and forth for what feels like a half hour before Jade lands a good hit, claiming the last of

Sub-Zero’s health. 1-1. Rowan sees Isaac hyper-focused on the screen in his peripheral

vision. Final Round. Fight. Sub-Zero tries to hit Jade head-on with something, but

Rowan manages to crouch and hit him low with a flurry of quick, but heavy hits. Eighty

percent health. Before he can try to get something else out, he uppercuts and keep him dazed with more quick jabs and a few sweeping kicks. Sixty percent health. Sub-Zero

manages to sneak in a few punches, but he still leaves an opening for Rowan to upset his balance and dominate the fight. Jade gets in a slick baton combo that depletes Sub-Zero’s health. FINISH HIM.

“Down, down, forward, down, circle, do it!” Isaac shouts. Rowan buttons in the command. The background shifts to focus on Jade. Sub-Zero still woozing around in front of her. Jade breaks away each arm, then both legs, and finally his head before

impaling the disembodied head with her green staff. Sub-Zero’s eyes blown wide with

shock. Jade wins. There’s still no way to conclusively confirm if consciousness is

retained after decapitation. But Rowan can only assume his reaction is more than

appropriate if it’s actually true. Fatality. Isaac claps him on the back, knocking the wind

Rowan didn’t know he was holding, out of him.

“My man! You’re still based, I knew it.” His excitement is infectious. Rowan’s

smile nearly rips his face apart without his consent.

“I forgot how much fun that was,” Rowan says as he catches his breath. “Lemme do another match.” he tries to navigate through the unfamiliar menu.

“Okay, Claudia.” Isaac says.

“Papa, I want some more,” he does his best Kirsten Dunst. Isaac grabs another controller and sets us up for a fight. They go round after round, occasionally alternating characters and fight styles. Rowan loses count after the fifth or six background change.

He gets lost in the kicks, blood, sweeps, gore, and brutal finishing moves. Isaac only breaks for a cough once, but it sounds throaty. Not quite as lung based as some of his worse ones, so Rowan doesn’t worry. They start reminiscing about being kids. Isaac reminds him that he’s always taken it easy on Rowan as a kid whenever we played video games. How unimaginative.

“I still beat you, either way,” Rowans remind him. He makes Baraka slice through

Erron Black’s throat. Baraka wins.

“Well, you’re a big boy now, Row. I think it’s time I stopped holding back,” he cues up another match.

“Do you ever miss being on tour?” Rowan asks.

Raiden wins.

“Sometimes. Do you regret being a medical student?” He asks.

Scorpion wins.

“Sometimes. Wish I could’ve helped mom and dad.”

Raiden wins.

“Is it true that hair and nails keep growing after you die?”

Scorpion wins. Fatality.

“No. Everything shrinks, so the nails and hair just look longer. But did you know

that you can grow tumors on your eye? Grow hairs and everything.”

“For real? That’s disgusting. I don’t-,”

Raiden wins. Flawless victory.

“Fuck, we’re too evenly matched,” Isaac says. He’s not wrong, but Rowan’s

having too much fun to care. Isaac holds his focus on the game, but the conversation

multi-tasking seems to be getting easier. He asks Rowan more about school and work. He

tries not to overshare, but Isaac sounds genuinely interested in what Rowan says. He tells

Isaac more about labs, Jacob and Jules, the doctors, the profs, the surgeons, the god-

forsaken Gold Dial. Rowan tries to rack his brain for the last time he got to talk to anyone

like this. He comes up profusely short.

“Don’t you still keep in touch with that one girl from your unit? Uh, Rachel or

whatever?” Rowan asks. He mashes a combo into Raiden’s control.

“Rhonda. Yeah, she’s okay,” Sub-Zero ices and smashes Raiden “She’s pregnant,

last I heard. Or trying to be. Dunno if her and her guy were successful. Shit,” Sub-Zero’s

backed into a corner.

“Kind of amazing people still want kids these days, right?” Rowan says. Raiden

stops hitting to lure Sub-Zero out of defense.

“Guess so. Hell,” Sub-Zero freeze-slides back to Raiden and uppercuts him.

“Could practically give birth on the bus and be within earshot of a medical professional.”

Raiden comes back with a shock combo. Sub-Zero goes down. Isaac exhales.

“It is sterile enough. Easier to clean, too. If nothing else, you’d probably hit a

hospital before the baby starts to crown,” Rowan adds. Final Round. Fight! “I guess if

people could justify kids during the Black Plague, we can justify it with the Pan.” Raiden tries to rip the upper hand away from Sub-Zero to no avail.

“Yeah. Yeah, no shit,” Isaac says. Rowan doesn’t know how long they’ve been playing. Whatever ounce of care he might’ve had at one point was probably spent on remembering a Fatality, three games ago. His mind finally gets to think about something other than medicine. It’s hard to not feel relieved, despite the focus he’s expending on the game. If they didn’t study the effects of mental and physical catharsis in class, Rowan might have forgotten it existed. He misses MMA very hard all at once.

“I know you just ate, but how about you eat my ass!” Sub-Zero throws up his victory pose over Raiden’s bloodied corpse. Isaac stands and flexes at Rowan. “I make rivers run red with blood. Soils become fertile from the shame and humiliation of your defeat.” He’s using an exaggerated villain voice. Rowan can’t tell if he’s genuinely hyped, or just trying to make me laugh. He laughs either way.

“You dare sully his victory with your laughter? You will be punished for your insole-,” A moderate cough breaks his character. He’s hooked up to the tank, so he recovers a bit easier. He sits back down and takes a few deep, bottom-lung breaths. He assures Rowan he’s okay. Rowan looks out the window to find a grey day in progress. He checks his watch. 12:58 p.m. His heartbeat explodes throughout his body. He forgot to keep tabs on time and now he’s missed a class. His hands softly slap to his face and a sharp exhale hisses between the creases.

“Huh?” Isaac asks.

“I missed a class.”

“I don’t think I heard your alarm or-,”

“It never went off. Fuck, I probably need a new watch now.” Rowan falls onto his back, defeated. He groans.

“Have you missed any classes before?” Isaac asks.

“No, but you can only miss one without penalty. I was trying to save it for an emergency.”

“Like what?” His voice is serious, but Rowan can’t tell if he’s actually serious. He tries to be vague.

“I dunno, what if you really need me one day?”

“What, if I start getting worse?” Isaac’s voice doesn’t change, “We’ve got alerts.

Dr. Kinns and all my specialists are only like five minutes from here,” he says with his eyes on Rowan. His face shifts from a friendly confusion to an almost somber realization.

It’s almost funny how often he forgets he’s dying. Rowan really hates having to remind him that he’s a Pan case.

“Dude, it’ll be fine. I’m fine. I know you’ve got a lot to deal with. If I start to get bad… but I won’t, right? Yeah. It’ll be cool,” he tries to reassure Rowan, or maybe himself. Rowan wants to try and counter him, but he can’t think of anything substantial enough.

“Yeah, you’re right. I dunno about you, but I had fun,” Rowan tries to lighten the mood.

“Hell yeah, same. When’s the last time we really did anything together anyway?”

Isaac gets up and stretches. Rowan starts thinking about what else he has to do today.

School ends at three and then he has a half-shift at a Trauma pop-up at seven. It’s 1:09

now. He sees Isaac start to make his way out of the living room. Rowan sits up on his

elbows.

“You wanna come grocery shopping with me?” He asks before Isaac’s out of sight. He looks back down at Rowan.

“You sure? You’re not gonna leave for school?” He asks, genuinely surprised.

Rowan almost surprises himself, too. But he thinks he could stand some time not rushing between one chore to the next. He points to his watch.

“How can I? My alarm never went off, so I’m still asleep. I’ll apologize to my profs later.”

“You sneaky son of a bitch,” Isaac laughs. “Sure, let me put on some clothes and a suit.”

CHAPTER VII

The day looks like it’s going to stay grey well into the night. Doesn’t feel like rain. Too dry and quiet. Watching rain inside the bus tube is kind of neat, though. Isaac’s

green HazMed suit swishes like cheap trackpants every time he moves. Rowan’s sure he

can’t help but rubberneck at everything since Isaac doesn’t get out much. He forgot how

grating that swishing is, though. His voice sounds a little blocked every time he talks. He

rattles off questions with each sight.

“How long has that place been bubbled?”

“Not that long, but more people get slapped with quarantines every day. You’re

not missing much.”

“Are we gonna pass by Vinnie’s Vinyl? Shit, does it even exist anymore?”

“It does, by some miracle. That’s on Clark though, not Clague.”

“When’s that one hepatology pop-up coming back? The ultrasound tech there was

mad cute. I think she was into me.”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’s working at another pop-up.” It all seems so

commonplace to Rowan. He could’ve sworn he talked about some of this stuff with Isaac

before. Then again, a lot of days blur together when there’s not sense of structured time.

There’s school, then work, then Isaac, then work, then Isaac, then school, then basic

human function if there’s any time left.

Next stop, Marc’s Shopping Center Plaza.

Rowan stands up and Isaac’s suit follows. They wait by the doors until the bus stops and

they whoosh open. Marc’s is practically dead center in the plaza, hence the name,

probably. The lot is sparsely populated with a few old Teslas, an empty Budweiser box and a really beat-up Prius. There’s an Esthete Elite cosmetic surgery pop-up on the way

far left of Marc’s. A suit wheels a middle-aged man out towards someone who could be

his daughter, granddaughter, or sugar baby. He’s covered in gauze from the neck down

but beams at the young lady. She kisses his cheek and hugs him carefully. Probably lipo.

Maybe muscle implants.

Marc’s still smells like Marc’s despite all of the sterility mandates. Somewhere

between floor cleaner, whatever they spray on the produce, and conveyor belt rubber. Not

the worst smell, but it always manages to linger until after a deep shower. The negative

space is still weirdly yellow. Rowan can never tell if it’s the lights or the walls or both.

Isaac and Rowan both head for a cart once we get inside. Isaac drives the cart.

They wander kind of aimlessly for a few minutes.

Rowan tries to focus on tuning out the muzak dripping through the store. They

probably should’ve made a list or something. Isaac walks into a cereal aisle.

“They’re having a bogo on Cap’n Crunch,” he says while inspecting their latest

flavor, Frosted Animal Cracker. Weird or brilliant? Who cares? Rowan grabs a box of

peanut butter flavor. The violently pink and classic orange boxes go into the cart. “I think

we have milk at home, but it might not be good for much longer,” Isaac adds.

“Milk. Got it. Any idea what kind of actual food you might want?” Rowan asks.

He tries to drive the cart away from the nuclear sugar stuff. Isaac follows, albeit slowly.

“Those huevos rancheros you made this morning were good. We could get some

more stuff for that. Maybe some stuff for sandwiches. Chips. Hot Pockets,” he starts

walking towards more snacks.

“Food, Isaac, not junk,” Rowan tries to get him closer to something nutritive.

“How much money do we have anyway?” He asks. Rowan clicks through the

apps on his watch. He hopes it’s just the alarm that’s faulty. Their bank statement has seen better days, but it’s nothing an extra pop-up gig won’t fix. Black’s isn’t expensive anyway. It never was and hopefully never will be. One weirdly specific constant. Sick or not, people need to eat at a reasonable price. It’s kind of comforting to know that the free market can at least attempt mild sympathy in the face of mass death. Then again, who

knows how long before that sympathy runs dry?

“We’ve got enough. Let’s try to stock up for at least another week or so,” Rowan

says. They mill through nearly each aisle having half-hearted debates on which leafy

green is the best choice. What fruit is supposedly good for digestion and the shelf-life of

said fruit. Why call it ‘Chicken of the Sea’ if it’s tuna? Actual chicken is on sale. Stellar.

And frozen chicken wings. Even more stellar. Whole wheat or whole grain. Did gluten

cause the Pan? Probably not, but potato bread isn’t half bad. Isaac mentions he might take

up making kimchi or home brewing kombucha. They don’t sell Napa cabbage or SCOBY

at Marc’s and they don’t really have Whole Foods money right now. Maybe it was

organic food that caused the Pan. Too few GMOs. Or maybe too many.

“Hey, when you start practicing, we’ll be up there too, dude. Jeeves’ll whip us up

steak and fries while we hang by the pool,” he says while deciding between hot sauces.

“Do you even hear yourself?” He holds up the sauces: Cholula and Crystal.

Rowan goes for the Crystal.

“Was the pool too much?” Isaac asks.

“You hit ‘too much’ with Jeeves.” Rowan walks towards the beans.

“He’s gotta make an honest living too. Got a wife and kids, Row. Have a heart.”

He adds some black beans to the cart.

“What would we even need a servant for?” Rowan walks towards the rest of the

canned vegetables.

“I dunno. Making food. Cleaning. Keeping an eye on me while you’re working.”

Rowan could swear he just heard somberness in Isaac’s voice. He adds, “Y’know. Butler shit,” almost as if to throw Rowan off.” Rowan keeps his eyes on the canned green beans in his hand. He pretends to check the nutritional facts before just putting them back on

the shelf.

“You mean you’re not gonna try to work too?” Rowan asks.

“Not if you’re makin’ mad stacks,” he laughs. “I’m kidding. Yeah, I’ll make

myself useful once I’m back to normal, Row.” He takes a short, deep breath, “I won’t let

you do it all alone.” He doesn’t look at Rowan, but he tries to meet his eyes.

“I know. It’ll be great.” He tries to change the subject. “What’s the job market

like for non-med tech these days anyway?” He asks. A genuine curiosity for an answer

only develops after he asks the question. Isaac makes a confused face.

“Y’know what? I don’t know.” He picks up a can of peas and carrots. “Haven’t really bothered to look.” The peas and carrots go into the cart. “Maybe I’ll poke around when we get home”

“I didn’t mean to find a job now, dude-,”

“Yeah, yeah, but you got me wondering too, now. Couldn’t hurt to look,” Rowan raises his eyebrows and nods his head. Isaac’s not wrong.

All of the cashiers are wearing dull black HazMeds. The yellow light might be dulling the black even more. Maybe they’re just grey. They have a lady who has to be at least eighty. Her movements are rickety with tire or arthritis, or both. One hundred bucks give or take, and they should be able to call the trip a success. The only thing that keeps it

from being a perfect success is that they have to carry everything onto the bus and back

home. A younger dull black suit offers to help refigure everything into a couple of boxes,

so they don’t risk bag breakage. Isaac tries to help with the boxes as the old suit slowly

rings everything up. He asks Rowan to wait for the bus. He hands Isaac his card in

compliance.

Rowan sees the bus doors closing as he walks out of Marc’s. He tries to run for it

but miss it by a few seconds. The next one won’t come for another fifteen minutes.

Walking home would take about as long if they jogged and didn’t have groceries. A sigh

escapes through his nostrils. A HazMed swishes somewhere in the background, followed

by what sounds like a gun cocking. He whips his head around to look for the noise. The

only other people in the parking lot are both suited and talking. He hears some scuffling.

It sounds like it’s coming from Esthete Elite. He checks past the clear doors. Isaac’s still

boxing. Rowan tries to walk quietly towards the noise.

There’s an alley space between the pop-up and a vacant building next to it.

There’s some nervous breathing.

“P-please, man, just take my cash. I won’t call the police, I swear,” a weak, but

definitely male voice says. Rowan hides behind a CSUV that’s just barely parked in front of the pop-up’s shop front.

“Ma’s insurance is about to run out and I can’t work. Y’know, heart condition,”

another male, but much sleazier voice croaks out. Rowan peaks out through the windows

into the alley. He can only see the victim with his hands extended over his head and the

tip of the gun barrel he’s being threatened with.

“My insurance is through his work. They-they’ll know if someone not on the plan

tries to make a claim-,”

“Fuck you, man. You and your fuckin’ crispy white scrubs. PC pricks don’t care whose money you make or take,” the gunman says. The gun itself doesn’t move much.

Rowan tries to move a little for a better view but loses his balance. His hands

instinctively cover his mouth. He tries to quiet his breathing. The victim looks out from

the alley, but not in his direction. Rowan only tries to get back up when the man faces

each the robber again.

“Please, I’m just an intern. I’ve got a mom with medical expenses too-,”

“You and everybody fuckin’ else. You wanna heal the sick you scrub piece of

shit? Hand over the damn wallet, got it?” He pushes the gun into the intern’s torso. His

white scrubs crinkle around the gun’s barrel. His eyes squeeze shut. Tears leak out onto

his reddened face. He nods frantically and starts slowly moving his hands into his

pockets.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the gunman says, trying to be reassuring. Intern fishes the wallet out and gives it to the gunman with a shaky hand. The wallet is quickly grabbed away.

The gun disappears. “Great bedside manner,” he says as the safety clicks back on the gun.

“I’ll be sure to leave a great review Mr. eh… what the fuck kinda last name is this?

Whatever. Have a nice day, doc.” Rowan ducks under the windows and listen for his footsteps. They echo down the alley until he can’t hear them anymore. Intern starts sobbing softly. His fear and the beginnings of shame propels Rowan up and away from the scene until he can’t hear the sobs anymore. Isaac and a suit are standing outside of

Black’s.

“Hey man,” Isaac says. Rowan walks to him and the other suit.

“Hey, uh, I missed the first bus,”

“So, you tried to go catch it on foot?”

“Oh no,” Let’s hope He’s not rusty at lying, “Someone from the pop-up over there asked me for help getting a patient out of her car.” Isaac’s face says he believes me. “Did we miss the second bus?” Rowan tries to sound concerned. The air whooshing between the bus and the inside of the tube answers him. “Fuck. Hey!” He runs up to the stop waving his hands. Rowan just makes it so the driver can see him and brake in time. Isaac and the suit walk the grocery boxes up to meet Rowan, but he meets the suit halfway. He thanks him, grabs the box, and gets on the bus. They grab the first seats they see.

“You okay? Your hands look shaky,” Isaac asks. Rowan looks down at his hands to find he’s right.

“Yeah, yeah. I was just worried about missing the bus again,” he half-lies.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “Well, all things considered, I’d say we made off pretty well today.” He looks at the groceries, then at Rowan.

“Yeah. Like thieves,” he tries to just look at the groceries until Isaac changes the subject. He decides to just look out the window instead. The intern isn’t in the alley anymore. He hopes like hell that someone helped him. He knows Isaac would have if he was the one waiting for the bus.

CHAPTER VIII

Rowan doesn’t really remember how or why he started walking, but he’s found

himself lost in a part of the city he only vaguely recognizes. Something like a migraine’s

ghost creeps behind his left eye. Why the hell did he quit smoking? Maybe he’s seen this

patch of the city on one of the thousands of bus rides to and from school. He notices a

few familiar pop-ups, but he knows that’s not really indicative of location.

Pop-ups go wherever there’s space. Sure, some of them try to get the same space

every time, but only clinics with noticeably fat bank statements can afford permanent

residence and all of the taxes that come with it. Amazing that the government still has the

nerve to implement and collect taxes in the face of the literal apocalypse. Is it really the

apocalypse if there are still taxes? Well, if death and taxes are the only certainties of life,

then it’s not beyond reason that the apocalypse can still have taxes.

Rowan wonders if he’s ever actually paid taxes before. He’s still a student, but he’s working. But he’s a registered intern, so he technically works for the hospital. Do they file his taxes for him? The smell of something greasy and salty wafts its way into

Rowan’s nose. A pizza place with screaming neon lights sits around a corner. His stomach growls into the ambient din of the city. He gets bumped into and falls to the

damp sidewalk.

“Walk much?” a female voice asks.

“The fuck is your problem?” Rowan shouts. He stands up to meet her gaze. Her

glasses are fogged and dappled with water droplets.

“What’s your problem, asshole?” She shouts back.

“I stopped walking for five fucking seconds. You bumped into me,”

“Who stands in the middle of a sidewalk when it’s raining?” He only just noticed

that his hair was getting wet. It isn’t raining so much as heavily misting.

“Fuck you, you stupid bitch! I was just trying to figure out where I am.”

“You’re lost?” Her anger dissipates for a second. “Oh, shit. I-,’ she says with genuine concern.

“Whatever, it’s fine,” Rowan spits at her. Her eyes flick between the pizza lights and Rowan.

“Here, let’s get out of the rain,” she motions towards the pizza place.

“Pass,” he starts to walk away.

“You wanna get even more lost?” she calls to him. Rowan stops. She continues,

“Let me help you find your way and you’ll never see me again, okay? Please?” Rowan weighs the sincerity of her voice against his desire to keep walking out of spite.

“Look, I’m sorry I bumped into you. And snapped at you,” she said. Rowan turned back to face her. The neon glow catches all the lines in her glasses and cheekbones. “It’s been a really rough day for me. Just,” she motions to the pizza place.

The misty rain makes the lights look foggy. Rowan reluctantly agrees by walking back to her, then into the pizza place. An electronic chime rings out when the door opens. The

inside is offensively red, both from the paint and the tiles. Rowan thinks of Sacred Heart for a second. The lady behind the counter is wearing a food service kind of HazMed.

“Can I buy you a slice?” the girl asks.

“He’s got money, it’s fine,” he says. She starts shuffling through the pockets of her coffee-stained trench coat. If she’s off-put, she’s not letting on. She shrugs. The prickle of cold blush on her tawny skin is fading.

“Well, I’m gonna get some pizza,” she walks up to the suited woman behind the counter and asks for two cheeses.

“I said I didn’t want one,”

“They’re both for me,” she whips her head back to answer Rowan. She looks annoyed now. Rowan’s face softens in embarrassment. Why is he being so abrasive?

He’s just tired enough to not care but awake enough to try and stop.

“Oh, right.” She turns back to the pizza lady and pays. Rowan glosses over the menu hanging over the heat-lamped cabinets.

“Anything for you, honey?” The pizza lady asks.

“Uh, no that’s okay.”

“You sure? You look thin. You should eat.” This lady had to have at least two grandkids.

“Really, I’m okay. I uh, I’m lactose intolerant.” That was a lie. Well, almost.

Cheese sometimes made him gassy. Not enough to genuinely turn down pizza. He watches the lady hand the girl her two slices. They’re glistening with cheese grease. He instantly regrets his lie. The girl sits at one of the hi-tops by the front window. Rowan

walks over to her but waits until she makes a face to let him know it’s okay to sit. She takes off her fingerless gloves.

“So, where’re you from?” she asks between big, but dainty bites of pizza. Her left front tooth is chipped.

“The Oaks.”

“Oh, suburbia. What’s got you out here?”

“I honestly don’t remember. I know I worked at the gastro pop-up a few blocks over once, but I doesn’t think it was out here,”

“Grace’s you mean?” she asks. Rowan nods.

“No, that’s always been there. I think they have pop-ups closer to the burbs sometimes.” Two more ‘dainty’ bites and the first slice is half gone.

“You work there?” He asks.

“Yeah. Just secretary stuff, nothing medical. I don’t remember ever seeing you there, though.” She motions towards the second slice to see if Rowan’s changed his mind.

He hasn’t. He doesn’t want to impose at this point. He shakes his head to say as much.

She starts the second slice. He doesn’t remember seeing her there, either, but it could’ve been on her day off.

“You work in medicine, I take it?” she asks.

“Interning, sort of. I’m just starting med school. They just made me watch and sanitize.”

“You’d think they’d have people who take care of all of that separately. Keep the professionals more free to,” she takes less dainty bite, “y’know, be professional.”

“Well, that’s kind of what Interns do. Whatever doctors and stuff don’t. Once they feel like you’re trained enough, all that scut work goes to the next new kid in line.” She considers this for a minute. More of the pizza gets eaten. She unbuttons the top half of the coat to reveal a red sweater with Venus symbols knitted haphazardly across the shoulders.

“I dunno. I could never be a doctor. Too much work. I barely made it out of high school.” The second slice is gone. She exhales between satisfaction disappointment and says, “He’s gonna get some more.” She swings away from the seat and back up to the counter. He watches her order two more slices before succumbing to the smell and the alluring orange grease. He walks up behind the girl.

“Do you have any with olives and onions back there?” he asks the pizza lady.

“I can get one in ready in a few minutes,” she says.

“I thought you were lactose?” the girl asks.

“I’ll take a Lactaid when I get home. Two please,” he says while he fumbles some crumpled bills onto the counter. Pizza lady smiles and takes the bills. The pair sit back

down with their fresh slices.

“You’re gross,” she says at his pizza.

“What?” He takes his first salty bite. “The olives or the onions?”

“Both,” she says through a free bit of her mouth. They eat in a strangely

comfortable silence. Rowan usually goes out of his way to make small talk, if only to get

used to having bedside manner. Not this time. He just wants this pizza. This quiet.

Nothing being expected of him. No work. No homework. No Isaac. He almost forgot

what it was like to have nothing to do. He knew it was only going to get harder and

moments like these would become a delicacy. Would consciously savoring it ruin the moment? She’s the first one to break the quiet after she finishes her third slice.

“So, do you remember what street you saw before you got lost? Or a landmark or something?” she asks. Rowan racks his brain. Tinner? Tarley? Talley?

“Uh, I think something with a ‘t’ maybe,” he says.

“There’s a few of those. Tinner Ave?” Rowan shakes his head. “Trolley Ave?”

Shake. “Trinity Street?” Shake. She hums in thought. He eats some of his second slice.

“Oh, was it Tristan Ave?” she asks.

“Yeah, that sounds kinda familiar,” he says between bites.

“Was there a gas station and a library nearby?”

“I think I remember a library. Lions or something out front?”

“Yeah, that’s the Moses Library,” she wipes her fingers on a thin, white napkin.

“That’s a little south of here, I think. You probably got off of the Euclid tube, yeah?” All his life, he’s never heard anyone call the bus ‘the tube’. He felt stupid for not thinking of that sooner.

“He’s pretty sure I did.”

“That’s easy. I can help you get home if you want.”

“How far is it from here?” She checks a clock by the menu.

“Maybe like, ten, twenty minutes,” she looks out of the window. Rowan notices

her eyes are such a pale blue, they’re almost silver. “Looks like the rain’s stopped. Worst

case scenario, we duck into another pizza place if it starts back up. Whaddya say?” She

stands up, adjusts her hat, puts her gloves back on, and rebuttons her coat. Rowan scarfs

down the rest of his pizza and stands up with her. They throw their grease-mottled paper plates and walk out into the freshly showered night.

The rain picked up and tapered off in seemingly random intervals as they walked.

They only had to duck under an awning once, but the cold wasn’t helping the dampness

go away any sooner. Rowan tries to sort through his thoughts while he follows the girl between lit and unlit streets. Her coffee-stained coat sways around her knees. The pavement and her checkered Vans sound like they’re old friends hi-fiving each other with each step. She moves as if she built the city brick by brick. He feels a pinprick of envy at her savvy. He thought girls like her only existed in indie movies with pretentious soundtracks. It never honestly occurred to him that cinema tropes could come from pieces of organic life. Did she ever tell him her name? Would asking at this point be rude? He tries to listen for clues when she speaks. She rattles off little bits of trivia and memories to explain how she knows the city so well. An Irish dive bar her ska band performed at once. A curb next to a bakery she tripped on and scrapped her knee. A few high-rise apartments her and her folks moved between. Her face gets a bit tense when she mentions her parents. What are the odds that she lost hers too? She probably wouldn’t want to talk about that if she really did lose her parents. She doesn’t look more than nineteen. They come to a four-way and need to wait for the crossing sign to change.

“So, what’s life like in suburbia?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You guys got the dog, the picket fence, and the SUV and shit?”

“No to everything but the shit.”

“Well, everyone’s got shit,” she starts walking as soon as the light changes.

Rowan follows.

“What’s yours?” he asks once they’re across.

“His what?”

“Your shit. Everyone’s got it, apparently. What’s yours like?” She looks around as if to reorient herself. Rowan worries that she’s gotten them more lost until she regains her sure-footed city gait.

“Well, his parents both work for this insurance firm. We moved around a lot, even before we ended up here. I didn’t mind it. I like meeting new people and changing scenery.” She’s not going at a hurried pace, but it still feels like they’re in a rush for some reason. The rain stopped for a little bit. She probably just wants to be inside before it picks back up. Rowan debates on telling her that he doesn’t have a curfew.

“How long have you been in Ohio?” he asks instead.

“Three years, I think. It’s definitely the longest we’ve stayed in one place.” He takes the ‘we’ as an indication that she still has parents.

“Why here?”

“Lots of people to sell insurance to. Nice apartment complexes. Decent schools.

Good clinics. Take your pick.” The pair stop in front of a considerably new-looking apartment building. The sign reads “Skyline Towers Complex”. Rowan hadn’t noticed that they’d been slowly migrating into a more expensive part of the city. Then again, it’s not like he knew where to find the expensive parts of the city anyway. He checked his watch. 6:32 pm. It had been a little over a half hour since they left the pizza place.

“Are you lost now?” He asked.

“No. I live here,” she said.

“Yeah, I know you live here but do you know where we are?”

“No, I mean I live here,” she points to the sign. “I didn’t have enough cash on me after that pizza, so I figured I’d stop home to get more.”

“For what? I told you I had money.”

“Cab fare.” She starts fumbling through her pockets for a keycard.

“Cab fare? What about the bus? I have a pass.”

“The station you need is like forty minutes on foot from here. And I don’t know about you, but my feet hurt and I want out of these wet clothes.” She waves the card in front of a scanner. The matte navy doors click open. Annoyance is building up in

Rowan’s gut.

“You just detoured me here so you could change?”

“You wanna try and find home on your own again?”

“Why didn’t we just head that way to begin with?”

“We did. We’re not out of the way. And this way you won’t have to walk as much. Any more indignant questions?” The nerve of this girl.

“Why are you still helping me if I’m so indignant?”

“Because I’m trying to be a decent fucking human being, you dick. You should try it sometime!” That hurt Rowan more than it was probably intended to. And it sounded like it was supposed to hurt a lot. Someone tried to get her attention behind the door. She turns to them and says, “Everything’s fine, I swear,” then turns back to Rowan. “So do you wanna come in or-,” a giant clap of thunder rattles through their chests and vibrates whatever still air was left in a ten-mile radius. Rowan’s heart skips a few beats. He bolts

past the door, grabbing the girl and shielding her against a wall. They shudder from startlement and cold for a moment. No second thunderclap. The rain starts bulleting against the building. She looks at Rowan. He looks back at her. They both only just noticed they’re about the same height. Her breath still smells like pizza sauce. His nose and cheeks are pinched red from the wind. Rowan backs away.

“Sorry about, uh,” he starts motioning from the door to her, “you know, all that,” he tries to say sincerely. It comes out a little flustered.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” she replies. She adjusts her coat. She beckons him towards an elevator. Rowan notices thirty buttons; Ten of them indicate penthouses. She presses a non-penthouse button. He’s not sure whether to be surprised or not.

“So, selling insurance gets you in places like this?” Rowan asked over the soft elevator chimes.

“Sometimes it does. His mom’s just really, really good at it. Gets crazy commissions, or whatever they’re called.”

“What about your dad?”

“He’s one of the accountants for the firm. He’s super awkward, but thankfully you won’t have to meet him.” They reach her floor. The doors slide open.

“Why not?”

“What time is it?” she asked. Rowan checked his watch again. She leads him towards her apartment.

“About twenty till six.”

“Yeah, he’s still there. Probably won’t get home until, like real late if this rain holds up.” So many halls. So many turns. No wonder she’s so good at navigating the city.

Her place is tucked into what looked like the outermost corner of the building. It doesn’t

look like she has immediate vicinity neighbors. She waves her card in front of the door scanner.

“Wait, what about your mom?” Rowan asks.

“What about her?”

“Will she be okay with you bringing some random dude over?”

“You’re not some random dude.”

“He’s not? How?”

“We met, had pizza together, spent the last almost hour talking and walking the city, and I’m helping you get home. And at no point during that time did you try to rape and or murder me.” Her tone is too casual for his liking.

“Do you do this a lot?” he tries to match her casual tone.

“No. But it’s not, not the kind of thing I would do.” Her tone is still too casual.

She opens the door, “Mom, I’m home,” she calls. No answer. She walks inside and tries again, “Mooooom?” Rowan follows behind with tentative steps. He looks around the large, but meticulously over-decorated apartment. He wonders if he should take off his shoes, but she didn’t, so he doesn’t. She heads for the kitchen area and plucks a sticky note from the fridge. People still do that? She reads the note aloud.

“‘Ro-Ro, Client meeting today. Should be home after seven. If you get home before dad does, there’s leftovers in the fridge and.’” she scoffs, “‘…and there’s pizza money on your bed.’ “Blah, blah, blah, ‘Take your medicine. Love you lots, Mom.’” She turns to face Rowan.

“Ro-Ro?” He tries to hold back a giggle.

100

“Yeah, yeah, let it out. It’s funny,” she smiled as she spoke. Apart from the chip, her teeth are orthodontist straight.

“You know, you never did tell me your name, Ro-Ro.”

“I didn’t? Are you sure?” Ro-Ro asks.

“Pretty sure.” She laughs.

“It comes from Rosanna. I’ve had friends call me Row before,” she notices

Rowan’s confused face. “What?” she asks.

“My name’s Rowan. My brother calls me Row,” he says. She makes a confused face that almost matches his.

“Get out. That’s nuts.”

“Isn’t it? What are the odds?”

“Who knows,” she opens the fridge, “You want something to drink, Roh-wanne?”

He smiles at her emphasized syllables. He forgets about the lingering cold in his clothes for a moment. He makes his way to the edge of the couch in the adjacent living area.

“Maybe just some water?” Rosanna blinks at him.

“First no pizza now this.” She reaches into the fridge.

“Okay, fine, do you have anything hot in there?” He asks before she can retrieve a water bottle.

“Oh, fuck, yeah, you’re probably freezing.” She quickly strides back to Rowan with her hands out. “Here, I’ll stick your hoodie in the drier,” she considers all of his clothes for a moment as he removed his damp hoodie, “Uh, there might be some sweats or something lying around if you want me to dry your pants, too.” Rowan hands her the now darker green hoodie.

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“Thanks, uh, I think I’ll be okay with his pants for now.” Their hands brush

against each other. Her hand already feels kind of warm. He remembers the gloves. She

bounds off into a hallway and into a room on the left. A light clicks on.

“You can take your shoes off if you want,” she calls from the room. He hears a

machine being opened and activated. He kicks off his shoes towards the door.

“There’s coffee and tea in the cupboard. Help yourself. I’m gonna put on some

dry clothes.” Tea. When was the last time he had tea instead of coffee? He doesn’t feel

quite right just rifling through the cupboards, but he can at least start the water. There’s a few pill bottles of various sizes by the copper sink. He tries not to read the labels, but the biggest label that reads ‘Tamoxifen’ stands out before he turns his eyes away. It sounds generic, but he doesn’t know what it’s for.

Rosanna turns the corner back into the kitchen. Rowan wasn’t sure what to expect when she took off her coat, but he still feels surprised at her pear-shaped but petite frame.

Her Agent Orange shirt is two sizes too big for her torso but seems to fit okay around her men’s boxer-clad hips. He notices her hair doesn’t seem wet at all.

“Teatime?” she says with a cockney accent.

“Is that okay?” he asks.

“Hell yeah. I’m not much for coffee anyway.” She walks to a long pantry closet and pulls out a few boxes of tea. “Green, lemon, or ginger?” she asks. None of those sound appealing to Rowan. Maybe that’s partly why he doesn’t drink tea.

“Green’s fine,” he says.

“Sugar? Milk? Honey? Codeine?” Who the hell puts milk in their tea?

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“Uh, just sugar. Please,” he says. She nods and throws the box of tea on the

closest countertop. Rowan sees tiny puffs of steam escape from the pot’s nozzle vent. She pulls out two mugs and sets them by the tea box. Rowan opens the box and retrieves two bags. He tries to put them in the mugs, but she stops him.

“Sit down, I’ll take care of it,” she says. Rowan stands idly while she carefully prepares the tea. “I mean it, sit,” she adds. “You might be here for a little while. Might as

well get comfortable.” He sits in one of the corners of the sectional and looks out at the

nighttime skyline. They were out there less than an hour ago, but it already feels so far

away. He wonders if people like Rosanna ever felt that alien sensation of separation when

they’re not literally inside the city. Despite the fact that he’s spent some time among

some of the streets down below, he always feels like a tourist. The Cleveland he should

know better feels closer to a postcard snapshot than a place he’s lived near for most of his

life. A trickle of hope for his future drips through the cracks of his subconscious. Some of

the best Triages are mere blocks away. He’s bound to become familiar with the landscape

eventually, right?

Rosanna brings the two mugs of tea and sets one of them on the coffee table in front

of the couch. She holds hers to her chest before taking a careful sip. Rowan follows after

a long, cooling blow on his tea. It’s fragrant and earthy, but not as awful as he

remembered green tea to be. Rosanna gives him small glances between drinks. The

comfortable silence has returned. He’s trying to figure out if it’s deliberate or not. He

doesn’t mind listening to her talk, but he wonders if she even really likes talking, or if

she’s one of those people who feels they need to talk, if only so they don’t have to be

alone with their thoughts. Are they really alone with their thoughts if they’re together?

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Rowan has felt alone before, but those moments were few and far between. Even then, they weren’t quite like the alone happening to him right now. But then again, he’s never tried being alone with someone else. He starts thinking about Isaac almost without consent. After their parents died, he’s been more and more parental than big brother.

Rowan gets it, he really does, but that doesn’t make it any less grating. He realizes that

Isaac hasn’t tried to call him since he left home. Why did he leave home again? He feels his browns knit together as he stares into his reflection on the tea. He wanted a cigarette.

“You okay there, Rowan?” Rosanna asks. He snaps his eyes back to her.

“Oh, yeah, just thinking,” he takes a sip of tea.

“Anything you wanna talk about?” She sounds genuine enough, but he can’t bring himself to justify an honest answer. He settles on a, hopefully, placating one.

“I dunno. Just kinda spacing in and out.”

“It’s cool if you wanna just vent. I feel like I’ve been doing most of the talking today anyway,” she takes another sip. “Come to think of it, all I know about you is that you work in medicine and live in the ‘burbs.” She’s right, but it’s not like the circumstances up to this point were really conducive to meaningful conversation.

“Is there anything in particular you want to know?” he asks. He’s not sure why he asked that, but it’s too late now. He feels a wash of nerves coat his chest.

“How’d you end up lost in the first place?” she asks. That could’ve gone worse.

It’s a fair question. But he was still kind of unsure of the answer. He sets down the mug and folds his hands together to try and help himself concentrate.

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“Well, I remember fragments. Like, I came home. His brother was there. I ran out of Nicorette. He was in a bad mood,” he feels his memory petering out and flickering back, “I think… I think we had a fight?” Click. That’s it.

“Like an argument?” she asks.

“Yeah. It started that way. Yeah, something happened to him AT WORK(?). I said… something and he started yelling at me, and” guilt flooded his guts as he pieced things together, “We started fighting. Fist fighting. I mean, yeah, we had scuffles when we were kids but not like that. It was an actual fight, fight,” Isaac’s angry, bloodied face flashed in his periphery. “I really hurt him,” he tries to swallow his shame. “No wonder he hasn’t called me.” The sounds of punches landing and Isaac yelping in pain scraped along the inside of his ear. He remembers slamming the door, then ending up at the end of the line on the bus and wandering into the city. Rosanna doesn’t seem disturbed, so much as concerned for Rowan. He thinks back to earlier when she bumped into him. His headache could’ve been his brain working double-time to repress whatever memory of the fight he had before he left. If she’d bumped into him just a few hours earlier, he might’ve lost it on her, too. He might’ve felt more disgusted with himself if he had more of a cohesive memory to think on. Regardless, he felt like shit for what he could remember. He felt Rosanna’s hand on his back.

“He probably just wanted to cool off. He would’ve called if something was really wrong, right?” she asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, probably.” She wasn’t wrong. He felt a bit placated, but not enough to cover the rest of the negativity swirling through his body. “Maybe I should call him

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anyway… yeah.” Rosanna nodded and left the room with her mug. Rowan punched

Isaac’s number into his Alert. One ring.

Two rings.

Three.

“Hello? Rowan?” Isaac’s voice sounds a little low, but not bad.

“Hey Isaac.”

“Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m fine, man. I’m in the city,” he looked in Rosanna’s last seen direction, “with a friend. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. The city? Where? Do you want me to come get you?”

“We’re in one of those new apartment buildings. She was trying to help me get home, but we got rained out. Or, in, I guess.”

“Rain? It’s fine down here. Is it bad over there?” he asks. Rowan checked the view. Rain was still rolling down the glass but not at the rate it was when they first got in.

“It’s getting better. Shouldn’t be long but I’ll let you know when I leave.” He hears Isaac sigh on the other end.

“Okay dude. Just,” a beat of tentative silence passes, “be safe. Call me if you need help.”

“Sure thing. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye Row.” Rowan exhaled. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath. Isaac sounded fine, if a little upset. He probably should get going though.

“Can I come back? Is it safe?” Rosanna called out from wherever she was.

“Yeah, thanks for the privacy,” he answered. She came out from another hallway.

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“Doesn’t worry. Everything okay?” she asks as she leans over the back of the couch.

“Yeah, everything’s okay, I think. I guess I won’t know until I get home. How’s that work, anyway?” His watch reads 6:02.

“I call a cab, we take the cab to the bus station, we find you the right bus, and you get on said bus,” she numbered each step on a finger until four slender fingers were out,

“Make sense?” Rowan nods. He allows himself to take a full seat on the couch. He doesn’t know if it’s real leather. Rosanna takes a seat adjacent to him. She drains the rest of her tea and asks if he needs warming up. He shakes his head. She gets up to warm hers up.

“So, what do we do in the meantime?” he asks. Before she could answer, her

Alert went off. She answers it without leaving the kitchen. He listens to a one-sided conversation.

“Hi mom… yeah, I’m okay… I got back inside before it got too bad. Are you okay?... oh no… So, what are you gonna do?... oh, okay. That’s a good idea… wait, what about dad?... no, not yet… he’s probably waiting out the rain, too… yeah, there’s that,” she starts rolling her eyes “yes, I took my medicine.” she was probably lying, “Okay, mom… okay, mom… see you later… love you, too. Bye.”

“All good?”

“Yeah. Looks like everyone’s trying to wait out the storm. They probably won’t get home until late.” He hears tea being poured. He stares at his own half-empty mug.

“You’ll be on your way by then. No worries,” she adds. He watches her walk back to the couch.

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“It’s cool. He’s not in any hurry.” This catches them both off guard. “I mean, I don’t wanna impose or,”

“No, no, I know what you meant,” she giggles. That’s good because Rowan wasn’t even sure what he meant. The comfortable silence comes back. They watch each other drink their tea. Rowan’s heart starts kicking up a little. He tries to rack his brain for the last time he spent time with a girl this way. Was it a date? They did have pizza together. They also argued twice. Is that what flirting is for Rosanna? It can’t be. But things are okay now, right? He wouldn’t have admitted it when they first met, but she is cute. The corner of his lip starts lifting. Rosanna smiles openly at him. A thunderclap startles Rowan.

“Kind of jumpy, huh?” she asks. He blushes a little.

“I guess. It was just so quiet.”

“Yeah. That’s true.” She makes a contemplative face. “One sec,” she says as shoots up off of the couch and into a hallway. There’s some rustling noises. Rosanna returns with a large baggie marked with the PharmaCo Farm-ecuticals’s moss green cross logo.

“You smoke, right?” Of all of the questions she’s asked him today, that was, by far, the most nonchalant.

“I used to. Well, cigarettes. Trying to quit.”

“So, is that a no?”

“I haven’t smoked weed since seventh grade.” He’d be lying if the contents of the bag didn’t look enticing. “But I might get drug tested.”

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“They care if you smoke weed but not cigarettes? I thought weed was free and clear legal? Cigarettes are still worse for you, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s completely legal for patients. I don’t have a prescription.” Rosanna doesn’t miss a beat. She walks into the kitchen. Rowan gets up and follows her.

“What’s your last name?” she asks.

“What for?”

“Just trust me.” He does, but he’s not sure why.

“Mendez.”

She’s writing a note on a pile of post-its. She finishes and hands the note to him with a swift motion.

To whom in may concern,

Rosanna Lee (#050518919) smoked her prescription weed near Intern Rowan

Mendez. Please excuse any traces of THC in his blood/hair/urine.

Sincerely,

Rosanna Lee (917)234-6957

“Ta-da,” she sings.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“A patient’s note. Like a doctor’s note but from a patient.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Why not? It’s not your fault if you were being a good person and making sure he took his medicine.”

“This isn’t your medicine.”

“Yes, it is.”

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“What about that?” he points to the Tamoxifen on the counter.

“I took that already today,” she shakes the baggie, “This is as needed for pain and nausea.”

“Are you nauseated or in pain?”

“I had four slices of cheap pizza and,” She smacks her elbow on the counter and hisses dramatically. “Yes. I’m in pain. I need to smoke some pot. Do you want some?”

He does want some. He hasn’t been drug tested yet. Even if he does, he’s just an intern.

They’ll only punish him for repeat offenses, right?

“Okay, fine.”

Rowan wonders if the couch would smell all earthy and citrusy after the smoke cleared. There wasn’t enough to create that stupid movie cotton-fog, but low-hanging wisps of the smoke lingered around their space. Rosanna pulled a long, bubbly drag out of the hookah’s rainbow hose. She lets most of the smoke stream out of her nostrils until a cough makes her expel the rest. Her cough is a lot like her eating; simultaneously clumsy, yet polite and graceful. She hands him the hose. The silicone feels like glue in his hands. The shag carpet fibers on the inside of his mouth dance in the peppery smoke.

He coughs less loudly, and much less gracefully than Rosanna. She snorts a laugh.

“Why is it called cottonmouth anyway?” Rowan asks. She shakes her head and shrugs. “To me, it always feels like his mouth is full of hair or something,” a small drag and quick exhale, “or like, a really old beach-towel.” He gives Rosanna the hose. She nods.

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“I get that,” a long, drag and roll, “wait, like a dirty beach towel? All sandy and

shit?” Rowan smacks his tongue around his mouth to look for particles of sand.

“No, no, like… like a towel with frays. Like I can taste what the towel is made

of.”

“Isn’t that cotton?” A dense beat of silence passes. Minutes? Hours? Time was

lost within the first bowl. Rowan can’t remember what towels are made of.

“I guess. Are you all cotton-y?” he asks. Rosanna tilts her head like a dog, then

smacks her mouth around.

“Not really, no. I guess, maybe, like… cushion-y? Does that make sense?” What

on earth is a ‘cushion-y’ mouth? Soft? Thin? Supple? His eyes linger on her softly bowed

lips as it circles the nozzle and the following smoke. “Like, I can feel the inside of my

cheek. Beyond the wet, skin part. The muscle.” He thinks she means that she’s just more aware of her mouth. It makes sense to Rosanna. “I don’t think I’ve ever had

cottonmouth.” Can something sound declarative and indifferent? Only when Rosanna

speaks.

“Wow. I think you might be a medical anomaly.” He gets the hose back and

smokes.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” she starts scratching her head. Rowan swears

he sees her hairline move. “Do you mind?” she points to her head. He shakes his head

with confusion. She exhales and removes her hair in a swift pull. “Fuck, these things get

so hot,” she gently scratches her peach-fuzzed scalp, “but it’s fun changing hair along with his clothes.” Rowan tries to hold back a laugh. He fails so miserably. Rosanna can’t find it in herself to be offended. She starts laughing along with him. Girl Scout Cookie

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gives her the giggles, too. His laughs become silent, save for the breath he pulls in to laugh more.

“Holy shit, you’re bald!” He coughs out between laughs. It rattles his lungs against his ribs in the most pleasantly painful way.

“And you’re rude as hell!” She doesn’t mean it, even though it’s kind of true. She returns his laughs.

“Wha- Rude? How?”

“Since you started laughing at an actual cancer patient.” She hope’s he’s too busy laughing to notice. He notices but keeps laughing. He tries to stop and form a sincere sentence at the same time. Sputters of ‘wait-what’s and hacking laughs come out instead.

He wants to die. She probably wants him to die, too. Rosanna’s the first to regain enough composure to speak.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I honestly laughed when I found out, too.” Somehow, that’s the thing that gets Rowan to calm down. He clears his sinuses and softly coughs one last time.

“Did you, really?” He asks.

“What was I supposed to do? Cry?” Rowan shrugged. He assumed most people cried when diagnosed with anything terminal. “My parents did all the crying for me.

That’s not to say I didn’t cry at all.” she slowly picked up the hookah hose and pulled a small puff. “But I figure laughing gives you more power, y’know?” Another small pull.

“Like, for even a few moments, you don’t let the thing have control of your life.” Her powder-blue eyes are glazed and prickled with redness. He thought of Isaac for less than a fraction of a second. He gets it. “When I die, I want to be remembered for being alive,

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not for dying. I literally laughed in the face of death.” He was genuinely at a loss for both thoughts and words.

“You don’t look like you’re dying, if it helps,” he says. He’s not sure where that came from, but he takes solace in the fact that he’s at least being honest. Rosanna’s smile seems genuine. Apart from the shaved head, nothing else clued him into her being and kind of sick. Much less a cancer patient. Maybe she’s only in the early stages. He tries to think of the pills on the counter. They didn’t seem old. She probably just prefers weed.

It’s not a substitute for chemo, but it’s not beyond reason that it would help enough to abate everything else that would otherwise drain her vitality.

“Can I ask you a medical question?” she hands Rowan the hose.

“I’m not really a doctor,” he takes a slow drag and sets the hose down on the coffee table.

“That’s fine, I’ve talked to enough cancer doctors to literally last me the rest of my life. The more off-book the answer, the better,” she scoots closer to him and crosses her legs in front of her. “Realistically, how long do you think someone without chemo

would last? Like, before they started to really look and feel sick?” He’s glad she didn’t

ask about an expiration date.

“It depends on a lot of different things,”

“Early stage three breast cancer. I’m twenty years old and until this, I barely even

had the sniffles. I honestly feel okay most days. I eat fine, go on runs sometimes, and

haven’t been classified as a Pan risk. Not once.” She says it all with a kind of clinical

hope. She’s probably used to rattling off all of that stuff to scrub after scrub. But there’s

something in her voice that betrays an optimism Rowan hasn’t seen in recent memory.

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“Have you ever had any kind of treatment besides Girl Scout Cookies?” he points

to the dented supply of weed.

“I sat through two or three rounds of chemo before just deciding to have a mastectomy.” Rowan looks at Rosanna’s chest. He could swear he sees some kind of mass beneath her shirt. She grabs the hem of her shirt and asks, “Do you wanna see? Will

it help?” Rowan’s face tries to recoil into his left shoulder. He didn’t think he was

looking in a perverted way. It didn’t seem to bother her if he was. She was probably used

to having her breasts exposed, anyway. Rowan was still uncomfortable.

“Uh, no, no, it’s fine,” he clears his throat, “That was a smart choice, I think,” he

focuses his energy into sounding medically professional. Rosanna doesn’t seem bothered.

He looks at her while his face radiates embarrassment.

“I thought so, too. They didn’t even have to remove the nipples. I miss his old

boobs, but they weren’t worth dying over,” she takes another pull from the hookah and

waits for Rowan to meet her eyes again. “So, how long?” she asks. He thinks hard for a

few minutes. He wished they started covering cancer sooner. He filed through what little

he knew about oncology, female anatomy, the Pan, the immune system, anything that

could help him piece together a plausible answer.

“Well, I guess if the cancer isn’t in your lymph nodes,”

“It is. They only found it after the surgery.”

“Have you actually been taking your Tamoxifen?” He tries to give her his best

hospital voice. She looks away from him.

“Sometimes.”

“What is sometimes? A few days a week? Month?”

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“I feel fine. I doesn’t see why I need to take it if I doesn’t feel sick.”

“It’s either that or IV chemo, which I’m sure is way worse.”

“I was in remission before. Maybe I can do it again.”

“That’s not how it works.” You don’t need to be a doctor to know that much. It still seems to hurt Rosanna’s feelings. She probably knows that, too.

“Chemo makes me feel sick. I’m not dying. I’m just… I’m just living with breast cancer, right? I’m not asking for treatment. I just want time.” This was the first time she actually sounded sad. He had known her for less than ten hours, but he already feels the poignancy. He touches her small shoulder. She throws herself into Rowan’s arms and holds him close. He wraps his arms around her without thinking. He doesn’t hear tears, but he feels a few hot drops on his neck. His arms tighten around her surprisingly frail body. He wants to give her some good news, but he can’t bring himself to lie. Then again, he doesn’t know if it’s really a lie. Doctors and Specialists assign arbitrary life expectancies all the time. Interns doesn’t get sued anyway.

“I don’t wanna die, Rowan. I just can’t,” she mumbles into his shirt. He wonders if it ever fully dried off from the rain. She smells like the rain.

“Everyone dies, Rosanna,” he waits for a reaction. Rosanna waits, too. “But I don’t think you’re quite there, yet.” He rubs her back.

“Really?” She sits up to look at Rowan, still wrapped in each other’s arms.

“Yeah. You’re still young,”

“Old enough for cancer,”

“But young enough to have a fighting chance,” her smile is so small, he would miss it if he blinked. “You’ve already come this far.” He’s tempted to wipe a tear away

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from her cheek. “But you need to take your medicine if you want to go a little further.”

She sniffles a little.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she wipes her face with her shirt collar. Her hand

rests on Rowan’s left cheek. He wonders if it feels hot to the touch. Rosanna’s hands are already kind of warm. “I don’t remember the last time someone’s looked at me the way you do.” He feels his blush come back. “People find out you have cancer and suddenly you’re a walking corpse.”

“How do I look at you?” Stupid question. He wants to know, but still, very stupid.

“You look at me like I’m still a person. Like I’m not a serial number or an autopsy waiting to happen. Like I’m still here. Like, actually here. Not another pile of

medical and funeral bills.” Her hand moves down to Rowan’s neck. Her other hand touches his knee. He feels hot all over now.

“You are still here, Ros,” he’s cut off by Rosanna’s kiss. She pulls away almost as fast she came in, but Rowan’s floored by how full and tangy her lips feel. They share a moment of flushed silence. She searches his face for displeasure. He searches hers for a reason why she stopped.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asks.

“No, I,” she covers her face with her hands, “I dunno know. I just,” Rowan touches her knee.

“You don’t have to apologize.” He pulls her face towards his as softly and slowly as he can. She has every chance to stop him and he would let her without question. But she doesn’t. They kiss for what feels both like hours and seconds. Rosanna wraps her arms around him. Rowan runs his hands over her soft head and around the back of her

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neck. Rain patters softly against the glass. Each of them pauses for a breath here and there. The couch’s skin creaks and stretches under their movements. Rosanna breaks the kiss again and begins leading him into her bedroom. She finds his mouth as they cross the threshold. They manage to find and sink into her bed without a clumsy moment.

Rosanna winds her leg around Rowan’s. He hopes she doesn’t notice his erection in spite of his excitement. She tightens her grip around him and pulls him closer than he thought could be managed. Her high drags bittersweet friction throughout his whole body. A low groan rumbles in the base of his throat. There’s no way she didn’t notice that. She looks at him. Her eyes and skin dimly lit by the low fuchsia lights that lined the headboard. He feels the warm tips of her fingers trail around the bottom hem of his shirt, then up onto the skin of his back, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He shivers against her touch. He kisses her so he doesn’t have deal with his feelings, but she only makes them worse the more she touches him. Rowan starts to run his hands down her back and hips. He tries to focus on just admiring the feeling of her shape. She lets a shy moan escape into his mouth which makes his fingers dig into the soft flesh of her backside. He doesn’t protest as she rolls his shirt up and off of him. Rosanna shifts until her legs are on

either side of his hips. The fabric of her shirt suddenly felt so irritating to Rowan. He sat

up slightly to invite her to take it off. He gets it up to her ribs when she tries to take over

for him. She hesitates for a moment, but before Rowan can reassure her, her shirt joins

his in a pile on the floor. Her thin, floral bra covers most of the scars, he can make out

two silvery-pink trails, the tips of which, peak out of the inner-most edge of the fabric.

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“I hope this… this is okay,” Rosanna says. She fidgets with her hands and doesn’t

make eye-contact with Rowan. She looks and sounds so ashamed. It breaks his heart.

“I'm sure it’s not what you’re used to, but,”

“What I’m used to?” He sits up more and runs soothing lines up and down her low back.

“Like, you know. When you’ve been with girls before. I’m sure they didn’t…

well, look,” she motions to her head and bra, “like this.” She wasn’t wrong. No one he’d

been with had looked like Rosanna, but that’s because he’d never been with anyone but

Rosanna before. He kissed her softly. Deliberately. As if he could whisk away, or at least

bear her embarrassment for her. She holds his face in her hands. He pulls away but

continues to try and soothe her with his hands.

“Ro, you’re the only girl I’m ever done this with,” he says. Rosanna looks

genuinely shocked.

“Wait, like I’m your first kiss?”

“No, no, no. I’ve kissed before, just, that’s all. Like, I’ve never been…” he

doesn’t want to say sexually active. He mulls words around until he lands on one, “I’ve

never gotten past like, second base with someone.” Rosanna pulls her lips into a half- smile, half-smirk.

“Second base? Seriously? Are you actually in your fifties?” She giggles softly.

“So, I’m guessing you doesn’t have a condom?” she says. Rowan shakes his head. “Well, shit,” she exhales.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. That’s just my luck.”

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“What do you mean?”

“I finally meet someone like you and now I can’t do anything about it.”

“Don’t have any condoms either?”

“Why would I? I’m a bald, breast-less, cancer-patient with no-one knows how

long to live. It’s not like I have a line of suitors.” He knew she was serious, albeit with

humor, but he couldn’t tell if she wants love or just sex. Maybe both. He doesn’t know if

he was really in a position to offer her either. But that’s not enough to dampen his desire to try.

“Rosanna, we only met a few hours ago. I know this isn’t love or anything,”

“Could’ve fooled me with how much we argued already,” she scoffs quietly. He scoffs back. Something, something old married couple, right?

“Fair point. But I really do I like you. I wish I could help you. Give you more time to maybe find more, suitors, as you say. But we don’t have to do anything. I can’t miss out on something I’ve never had.” She smiles at his words and places a small kiss at the top of his head. Silence crackles between the two of them.

“We can still try if you want,” she says without looking at him. Rowan thinks for a few beats. Getting ready for medical school didn’t leave a lot of time for romance. He barely had time to take care of himself, let alone try to learn how to please a woman. He knew it would likely end up in embarrassment. But then again, when was he going to get another chance? He nodded his head and kissed Rosanna. Her heartbeat was reverbing through her whole body. His hands were careful but unpracticed. She tried to encourage him to be braver, or at least less afraid. But he still withheld. She takes off her own

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underwear. Rowan follows suit. Rowena pulls his face as close to hers as she can. Their lips touch without kissing. He waits for a few seconds.

“If you want to stop, just say so, okay?” he asks. She nods.

“Okay.” She holds her breath as Rowan tries to find the right spot. A few tenuous movements. A sharp pinch and a passive cramp. He tenses up when he hears her gasp.

She exhales and nods again.

Time simultaneously felt stretched and compressed. Everything happened in slow motion over the course of maybe five, maybe ten minutes. Rowan could tell Rowena was pleased but not satisfied. Rowena could tell Rowan was excited but not fully present.

“Can w-can we stop?” she asked. Her voice rattled with nerves. He laid beside her before she could protest. She cuddles into his side and tries to help him finish, but he stops her.

“He’s fine, I promise. You don’t have to do anything.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He smiles at her to try and placate whatever guilt she might be feeling. “Honestly, I couldn’t even tell you where to start. I’ve never really gotten this far

with anyone.” Rowena giggles.

“I see,” she kisses his cheek. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he kisses her lips.

The rain had let back up to the misty drizzle that they met in earlier that night.

The streetlights turned into soft halos. Rosanna was the first to hold hands, but Rowan

put their clasped hands into his hoodie pocket. They tried to say huddled together as they

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walked out to find the cab. She didn’t protest when he led her into the backseat with him.

The driver warned them that traffic was still a little backed up so it might take a little longer. Rosanna put her head on Rowan’s shoulder. He leaned his head onto the top of hers. He quietly hoped she couldn’t feel his heartbeat rocketing. He didn’t get to watch

Rosanna walk her laissez-faire city walk this time, but he didn’t mind. He tried to memorize some of the landmarks and shops on the way to the station. Rosanna had a strange effect on time, making it feel so sudden and not sudden enough. Rowan tried to rack his brain for anyone else who did the same thing. In a series of blinks, they arrive at the station.

“You kids be safe,” the driver says as they get out.

“We will,” Rowan replies. They were still holding hands, this time outside of his pocket. He couldn’t tell who was leading who anymore. He knew how to navigate a tube station, but this wasn’t his tube station. Rosanna leads him to his platform. She looks down at their hands, then back away from his gaze.

“So…” he says.

“So, yeah.” She still doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Thank you for everything. Really,” he says. Rosanna looks up at him. “I probably would still be wandering aimlessly if I didn’t run into you.”

“Anytime.” She says it in the same way Isaac does: in complete spite of the grim reality that surrounded them. He looks down at their hands. He doesn’t want to let go.

The station intercom reminds them that they must part ways. Rowena squeezes his hand.

He looks back at her face. She’s smiling the sincerest smile he’s seen from her so far.

“If we meet again, we can be a couple for real,” she says.

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“Promise?” he asks.

“Promise.” He kisses her lips gently one last time before stepping into the tube.

He tries to not look at her while he finds a seat. She watches him until he sits down. Their eyes meet and they exchange a wave through the frosted polyurethane. The bus hisses before it pulls away. Rowan plays images of his night behind his eyes. He imagines what having a girlfriend might be like the entire way home. He wonders if Rosanna did the same on her way back through the city.

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CHAPTER IX

Rowan hears sounds of Isaac’s gaming, but he doesn’t see him in his usual living room spot. He’s probably moved everything into his room. He calls out to ask him as much and he confirms his suspicion. Shortly after, he coughs a few normal, wet coughs.

Rowan waits to hear if it gets any worse. Sometimes silence is the best thing to hear from a patient. His big tank is still in the living room. He hopes Isaac’s hooked up to something in there. His Alert goes off. Isaac sneezes, then coughs once. Julie’s serial is on his screen.

“Hello?”

“Rowan?” She doesn’t sound worried, but he worries anyway.

“Yeah, Julie, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, everything’s fine. Sorry, I found your Alert in the directory,” she says. Isaac keeps coughing. They’re weaker coughs, but he keeps talking to his team.

“It’s cool. What’s up?”

“Did you know that a Triage rep is coming today?” Rowan didn’t, but better safe than sorry.

“I think I might’ve heard something about it in passing, but I didn’t get anything official, so,”

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“That doesn’t surprise me. I only know because a pair of them are on the bus and

Sacred Heart’s the last hospital on this route.”

“Have you seen them before?”

“Once. It’s a man and a woman. I think they came a little before Jacob started, but

I’m not sure,”

“Well, what do you think they’re coming for? All’s been relatively normal,”

“Maybe that’s why. Everything’s been too normal. Maybe they think we’re hiding something,”

“Is that even possible? Everything Pan-related is pretty much public record at this point,”

“That’s true, I guess,”

“They’re probably just scouting for more personnel. Gotta meet some recruitment quota or something.” Isaac’s been quiet. Something doesn’t feel right. “Look, I gotta go, but I’m sure everything’s fine.” Rowan hangs up before she can answer him. “Iz, you okay?” Rowan calls to his part of the house.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He sounds too weak for comfort. Rowan grabs a water and speed walks to Isaac’s room. Isaac doesn’t look great, but he doesn’t look especially unusual for someone with kidney and lung failure. His skin looks a little pale, which only makes the bags around his eyes seem even darker. He’s hooked up to a working tank, but

Rowan can’t tell how long he’s been using it today. “I told you I’m fine,” he tries to placate me, but more coughs follow.

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“You don’t look fine,” Rowan motions for Isaac to give him his hand so he can check his pulse. It feels irregular. He should’ve had a stethoscope on him. He starts rifling through Isaac’s things for a blood pressure cuff.

“Dude, I’m okay,” a cough, “My chest kind of hurts from all the coughing, but I’ll be fine.” That’s not what Rowan wants to hear. He runs out looking for something to take his blood pressure and check his oxygen saturation. He finds a stethoscope and cuff in his bag. Isaac’s still awake Rowan he gets back, thankfully.

“Chest pain? Where? When did it start? How strong?” Rowan looks for some pulse in his upper arm. His hand looks like there hasn’t been enough blood flow happening today.

“I dunno, like twenty minutes ago. It’s not sharp,”

“Is it more like a pressure?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been coughing a lot, like I-,”

“Are your legs crossed?” He shakes his head. “Just relax and stay still.” A few pumps into the cuff. “Have you gotten up at all today?”

“Not really, I’ve been kinda low.”

“Low how? Like dizzy?” The needle’s moving without stopping. A cold clench wraps around his stomach.

“Kinda yeah. Stomach’s not right, too.” Come on, needle, stop.

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” bomp…. bomp… eighty over fifty.

“I didn’t wanna bother you. I’m fine, really.” Rowan swallows the fallout from the anger in his throat. He could fucking kill Isaac right now, but his body is doing that already. Instead, he leaves, pulls out his Alert and dials 737.

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“Pan Emergency Services, are you calling for a new or registered case?”

“Registered,”

“Patient serial number please?”

“0504176200. Isaac Mendez,”

“Symptoms presented?”

“Hypotensive heart attack. Blood pressure is eighty over fifty and declining.

Chest pain, dizziness and nausea. Persistent cough due to preexisting lung failure,”

“Medics have been deployed with an ETA of two minutes or less. Please stay on the line until they arrive.” Rowan puts the Alert on Isaac’s nightstand.

“What’s going on?” Rowans pull Isaac’s covers off of him, he recoils, “Jesus, dude, I’m cold.” There’s a light sheen on his head.

“Patient is also presenting cold sweats,” Rowan says towards the Alert.

“Medics are on their way, sir.” He throws Isaac the thickest hoodie on his floor he can find. Isaac’s already wearing socks, but he can see cyanotic skin creeping up his swollen legs. He sits up slowly and gets the hoodie over his head. He woozes but manages to stay upright.

“I swear, Rowan, I’ll be okay. His lungs just suck really bad-”

“Yeah, and now your heart sucks, too.” Rowan fails at keeping the blistering rage out of his mouth. Isaac recoils at his voice. The wails of PES sirens ring outside the house.

“Your medics have arrived. They will escort the patient to the nearest Multi-

Pandemic Treatment Facility at: PharmaCo Triage 028,” A few heavy knocks rattle against the door. “Thank you for trusting PharmaCo. You may now end the call.”

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Rowan’s clearance can get him past the civilian parts of the hospital, but not where he can be with Isaac in the OR. He leans against the carbonite glass and watch.

Suits are watching readouts and real-time images of his heart. He doesn’t seem cognitive enough to respond. The monitors show the inside of Isaac’s cardiac tissue. What he wouldn’t give to hear Isaac crack a stupid joke at the personnel treating him.

Something, something ‘That crack was from a bad-breakup’ something,

something.

They’re all focused on keeping him alive and not upsetting the already tumultuous balance of failing organs in his body. The two Doctors tag team on working on his heart and lungs. A Specialist focuses on his kidneys. A Surgeon works carefully to repair the infraction. From what little Rowan can assume, his lungs aren’t in complete failure, but they’re not great. His kidneys are in worse shape. His heart is getting the most attention, so it should be the most functional of the three, the fastest. He doesn’t know if they plan on treating his lungs and kidneys while he’s there. They’ll probably keep them stable and only treat them if they start to fail completely.

He’s watched so many personnel work on so many people, but he’s never felt so removed. Watching a patient you don’t know is easy. It’s all a part of the job, even as a student or an Intern. They have to be prepared to treat everyone to the best of their ability. Rowan can deal with not being allowed in during practice, but it’s not a serial number with X, Y, Z conditions and complications discussed in last class’s lecture to be tested next week. It’s not another prompt in his textbook. Hell, it’s not even a friend of a friend at work. It’s his brother on the table. If burning this whole fucking hospital to the

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ground would make him live, Rowan would kill whoever try to keep the matches and gasoline from him.

Isaac’s chest starts rising and falling with a bit more volume than before. The readouts on the monitors are looking much more normal than before. Rowan sees a

Doctor tell the surgeon to start closing him up. Initial cleanup begins. A script gets written down by an Intern. Isaac gets hooked up to oxygen and some advanced monitors that’ll follow him into his room. No one looks at him or checks to see if he’s still watching. They start getting him ready to wheel him out. Rowan wishes he could tell if a room was soundproof just by looking at it. He can’t hear much of what’s coming out of the other side of the glass.

Fuck it.

Rowan screams until he’s sure blood vessels in his throat rupture. Then he keeps screaming. He screams at himself for being careless. At Isaac for being arrogant. At God for everything else.

Why is it getting this much worse this fast? They already lost their parents. They don’t need to lose each other.

He throws punches against the glass.

Rowan wants to taste blood.

The glass won’t break.

He doesn’t care.

He wants to hear bones until he sees marrow leaking out.

He already feels bruises forming on his knuckles.

He knows he’ll be sore in the morning.

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He still doesn’t care.

He wishes they would crack along with the glass. He only stops when the door hisses open. No one seems to notice anything. Rowan thinks the room is soundproof after all.

He rushes to try and catch up but one of the suited Interns stops him.

“Your brother is fine. Drs. Ho and Kitt were able to repair the infraction,”

“What about his lungs and kidneys?”

“They’re stable for now, but he can’t go back home until there’s significant improvement in at least one,”

“His Primary Doctor is at another hospital,”

“She’s already been notified and has released Isaac to our care until further notice,”

“You can’t do that,”

“Isaac’s consent was relinquished dur-,”

“When? When he couldn’t keep his blood pressure normal?!”

“When he was classified as an Advanced Pan. I’m sorry, but he no longer has control of his care,”

“Then why not ask me? I’m-”

“You’re not his power of attorney. Even if you were, you mean to tell me you wouldn’t consent to him receiving the necessary care to save his life?” Rowan wishes he hadn’t spent so much rage on the wall.

“So, what now?” He asks.

“He’ll be kept in the APU. You’ll need to wear a HazMed to visit him, but you have unlimited visitation since you’re his next of kin and a documented Intern.”

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“What about his treatment?”

“He’s not authorized to-,”

“Who is then?” Rowan yells.

“Drs. Ho and Kitt. They’re his PDs now.” He storms out to find them and Isaac.

The suited Intern doesn’t try to stop him.

Isaac and the crew are already out of sight. Rowan looks for the nearest Intern

Station and ask for Ho and Kitt. They’re already in the APU.

The only people not in HazMeds are the patients. All of the personnel are color- coded. Rowan only knows visitors are wearing white because that’s what he’s wearing.

He looks for Isaac’s bed in hopes the Doctors will be there with Isaac. He’s still sleeping and hooked up to all of the monitors he left the OR with. His heartrate is back to a normal rate and his risk factor percentage is low. He’s breathing shallow, sleeping breaths but his oxygen is at a good level. The one Rowan thinks is kidney functionality seems to be both monitoring and doing some of the work. Maybe they’ll be able to heal if they’re under less stress. There are still bags under his eyes. His hair’s matted with dried sweat. Rowan is partly holding onto some contempt for Isaac not telling him he was getting worse.

More of him is just relieved to see Isaac alive. Or whatever approximation of alive he is right now. He’s technically not on life-support, but just being in an actual hospital makes him look like less of himself. A shower probably wouldn’t hurt.

“Excuse me, are you Rowan?” a deep voice says behind him. He turns around to find a forest green suit.

“Yes, I’m Isaac’s brother.”

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“I’m Dr. Dominic Ho. I’ll be his cardiologist Primary Doctor while he’s here.” He

could make out a pair of nearly black eyes and a matching beard behind the mask.

“Where’s Dr. Kitt?” He asks.

“She’s with another patient right now. I figured you’d try to come see Isaac as

soon as you could, so I wanted to be nearby.”

“You don’t have other patients?”

“Technically, I’m off the clock, but like I said, I just wanted to be around if you came looking for me or Dr. Kitt,” he looks at Isaac, “His heart hasn’t been a problem until today, correct?”

“No, it was just his kidneys and lungs.”

“Has he had a change of diet? Recent physical or emotional trauma?”

“I don’t think so. If he did, he,” the next words make bile coat his mouth, “he didn’t tell me.”

“Did you two have a fight recently?”

“No. Things were fine. He said,” Rowan looks at Isaac. Dr. Ho looks back at

Rowan. He meets his mask, “He said he just didn’t wanna bother me.”

“Was he always like that? Doesn’t wanna bother anyone?”

“Pretty much.” Dr. Ho give me a sympathetic smirk.

“Unfortunately, he can’t afford to do that anymore. He’s stable now, but he needs

to be more careful in the future.” Rowan doesn’t allow himself to feel hopeful. This is all his fault.

“What do you mean? I thought he was going to stay here?”

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“Most likely, yes. But I’m not ruling out the possibility that he could go home at

some point just yet.” Rowan tries to tune out ambient din of the unit.

“What’s the plan?”

“For now, we’re treating him with bronchodilators, ACE inhibitors and dialysis.

Ultimately, he’s going to need transplants before he can be released.”

“All three?”

“Ideally, yes. But, if he improves on the life support and gets a lung and heart or a

kidney and heart, he could be released back into home care.”

“If he gets all three, will he be cured?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. We still don’t know for sure what’s causing the

Pan, so I can’t promise any kind of permanent solution.” Isaac groans a little. They both

turn to look at him. He stirs but goes back to sleep. They face each other again.

“Not for nothing, but Isaac’s young and strong and willful and he’s surrounded by

the best available care. That’s some of the better news I’ve given in a while.” Dr. Ho’s

voice is sincere, but it’s not enough. Rowan knows that platitude doesn’t mean much.

“Thank you, Dr. Ho.”

“Of course. His Alert information has already been reprogrammed, so if either of

you have any questions, please feel free to call me or Dr. Kitt. Until then, I’ll leave you

two be.” he slightly bows his head and walks away. Rowan looks at Isaac’s IV and the

auto-tube with the sedative they gave him. He should be asleep for another few hours at

least. He sits in the reclining chair next to his bed. The clock says he has to be at work in

three hours.

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A money-colored suit walks up to Rowan and hands him some paperwork on a clipboard. It says he needs to fill these out before he leaves. He waits until the suit walks away to look at the papers. They’re to get Isaac on a list for an organ transplant. He can’t afford to keep Isaac in the Triage longer than he has to be. The form says waiting is

‘free’. Free apparently is four to six months for a heart, one to three months for kidneys, and three to five months for lungs. All told, that’s six months of triple the medical bills we were already paying. Unless he quits school and works beyond the legal number of hours, they’ll run out of money and Isaac will die waiting. There’s a PharmaCo green brochure behind all of the papers.

PharmaCo ‘New You’ Organs:

Your Organs, but Better

Thanks to PharmaCo’s revolutionary ORGANic technology, the days of waiting for months on transplant

lists and tirelessly looking for organ matches are OVER. Using non-invasive collection, your DNA is

sampled, deconstructed and reconstructed to grow strong, healthy organs, free from any previous

complications

 Transplant Organs grown in-lab while you prepare for surgery

 ZERO RISK OF ORGAN REJECTION!

 Free from Immuno-Compromised Environments

 Transplant ready in as little as 2 WEEKS

 Lay-away and Payment Plan Options Available

Skip the line and the side effects, with New You Transplant Organs. They’re your organs, but better! Ask

your Doctor about a New You transplant today.

His gaze shifts between Isaac and the brochures. These sound too good to be true, but he doesn’t see anything about insurance covering anything. At most, it’ll cover his stay, most of the medicines, and maybe the surgery. He sighs and send an email to the contact on the brochure. The worst they can do is tell him what he already suspects to be true. His 133

mind races back to WellMart’s organ sale. He wonders what are the odds that they’ll do layaway. They do it for showers and hospital-grade equipment, he thinks. Why not for organs? He decides that he can stop there on the way to work. Isaac’s still sleeping, but he’s managed to roll over onto his side. Rowan softly pats his hand.

“I’ll be back, Iz. Just,” he represses some leftover frustration, “just don’t go anywhere.” he waits a few seconds. This monitors beep and hum arrhythmically. Isaac snores. Rowan scoffs and walks out.

He looks around for a directory and instinctively walks to where it is at Sacred

Heart, only to find the entrance to the Trauma center. A cluster of dark green suits wheel in a thrashing body on a gurney past him. He’s spitting and screaming against all of the restraints. The silicone groans. Rowan can’t tell what’s wrong with him and he can’t tell exactly what they’re doing to him, but something about it all seems eerily familiar.

There’s a moment of pause before they head into the APU. Rowan sneaks back a foot behind all of the clamoring. They’re too busy to notice him. He hides behind one of the dividers by an empty bed. He’s having tremors in between all of the intense fighting against anything in his immediate space.

“Sir, can you tell us your name?” A suit asks. Screeching, spitting, spasming.

Other suits try to hook him up to some sedatives.

“Sir, can you verify your date of birth?” All of his facial orifices are weeping blood and mucus. His face looks like a bad abstract painting. They push his head flat to one side and inject a syringe of something into his neck. He stills and slows his breathing but keeps screaming.

“Sir, can you tell us about your symptoms?”

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“Everything burns,” his volume stays at a scream, “My head feels like it’s being electrocuted. I taste blood,” he stops to breath a deep, strained breath, “Someone fucking kill me!”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that-” the patient tries to get in the suit’s mask.

“I’ll fucking kill you, you god damn pigfuck son of a bitch!” His face washes white. He stops moving and yelling. He hits his bed while the monitor alerts everyone around him of his heart stopping. Or, more likely exploding. Suits are still frantic to try and revive him. They get some blood samples while he’s lying still enough to do so. The suit with the blood runs past Rowan towards one of the Rapid Panel machines. The patient gets defibrillated while the machine eats the blood samples and prints results. The flatline picks back up into a slow, but consistent heartbeat. The suit runs the results past me to the action. He doesn’t look dead, but not unstable. Like Marsha.

“Patient, Planter, Ronald H. Sixty-eight years old. Multi-Pan, lymphoma, stage three brain cancer, rheumatism, and type two diabetes.”

“Tox report?”

“It’s what we’ve been seeing for the last few weeks, ma’am. The Curitol- derivative hybrid. Only now, there’s traces of some steroid-laced Prozac and atomoxetine. Someone’s making this stuff more complicated.”

“The Prozac and vasodilators and such, I understand, but where are these people even getting the Curitol? You can’t make derivatives unless you have the source material”

Curitol? What the hell is Curitol? The flatline rings out again. All of his other monitors signal complete death. Everyone readies themselves for something.

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“Relax, he’s too advanced. There’s no way he’ll aftershock.” Everyone else relaxes, but they linger. A full minute passes. Nothing. He’s pronounced dead and

wheeled away to the morgue. The Personnel start speaking in whispers no one would

hear unless they were listening. Rowan is listening, but he only gets snippets as he

follows them out of the APU.

“… trials haven’t been successful enough… Distribution is already... If someone

finds tries to reverse en… is that even possi…” Their voices get obscured in the din of

the Triage.

There’s something oddly comforting to Rowan about the organized chaos of a hospital. Triages always felt like these otherworldly utopias of science. But the only big differences between this place and Sacred Heart are the color scheme and the machines that Rowan has only seen or heard of in passing. The walls are all crisp, mint green and there are personnel clad in various shades of green. A pair of people in white scrubs turn a corner and almost walk past Rowan. They ask if he needs help, but he waves them off.

He catches the smell of tea. WakeD They could be Interns. He walks cautiously behind them, taking cover behind whatever he can whenever they turn their heads. They lead him to a break room which is across from a vending machine with PharmaCo scrubs in it.

Rowan thought a Triage would have a more interesting way to dispense scrubs but hey, this works. There’s a card scanner.

Fuck.

There’s a manual number pad. He’s worked at a few PharmaCo pharmacies before. Maybe he’s still registered.

INVALID ID. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

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Fuck… Again.

Jacob’s parents work for PharmaCo… maybe his serial will work.

INVALID ID. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

Fuck! That’s enough.

Rowan’s brain starts running scenarios and piecing a plan together.

The vendor doesn’t have a deposit bin for used scrubs. Sacred Heart has a scrub

UV pod just to save some money, but there’s no guarantee this place does. There definitely wasn’t one in the shower he used before he came into the Triage but that was probably a civilian-only shower. The scrubs have to go somewhere to get disposed, right?

They have to be deposited somewhere before that.

Rowan finds a visitor map, but it only shows the areas that patients and civilians have access to.

“Have a good one, man.” Rowan turns his head to find the sound. An Intern is

waving goodbye to other Interns.

Perfect.

Rowan sneaks behind him until he sees a disposal chute and a small changing area in

front of a sealed shower door. There’s a slot over the chute in the wall of the changing

area. The Intern steps inside. Rowan waits and keeps an eye out for people. He hears the

faint sound of a vacuum seal behind the wall and the slot clicking open. His hands wait

over the chute to catch the sealed scrubs. The package is small enough to hide under his

shirt, but it’s not exactly inconspicuous. As long as he acts nonchalant and stays out of

eyesight until he gets into a bathroom, no one should notice the corners poking from

underneath his clothes.

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Rowan’s skin looks like it has more color against the white scrubs. The notices

the green label on the breast pocket and left sleeve. He thinks about getting to work at

PharmaCo for real one day. Maybe if he did better in his first semester or worked more of

their places he’d be working there for real now. Maybe Isaac would have a better chance

of getting transplant organs on time. Or maybe even get a shot at this Curitol stuff. Guilt

makes his eyes heavy. He shakes his head. The scrubs are too loose for his liking, but they’re not stained with anything and they fit his clothes, so they’ll do. He grabs a face mask from the dispenser by the paper towels to be safe.

What feels like hours and somehow minutes fly by. Rowan liked to think that he had paid close attention to his surroundings before, but he felt hyperaware of everything around him in the Triage. He successfully makes himself look like he’s in a hurry to get somewhere so no one bothers him. It works for a time. He tries to think where someone who knew about Curitol would be that an Intern could access. He thought about the

Pharmacy center or their main lab, but he would probably need clearance to get in. Every non-white scrub he eavesdropped on hadn’t said anything about it. He thinks back to

Marsha and Ronald. He could try to linger around the Trauma Center but what are the odds another patient like that would come in so fast? If these people were being scrapped off of street corners or wandering guided only by their violence-fueled trance, then there would be no way of knowing for sure. The Doctors in the APU said these people had been coming for the last few weeks, so whatever Curitol is, it’s only been available for a little before that. A month and a half maybe. Rowan tries to think if he’d heard anything about it anywhere. He kicks himself for not paying closer attention to the news. If

PharmaCo had released something new and promising, they’d have broadcasted about it

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for sure. At least to advertise for human volunteers so they wouldn’t have to keep relying

on what has to be a thinning supply of FHT subjects.

Something isn’t adding up.

“You okay there, guy?” A true green scrub asks him. He jumps in startlement.

“Whoa, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” He holds his hands up to try and calm Rowan

down. He exhales.

“Yeah, it’s cool, I’m fine.”

“You sure? You looked pretty pissed off to me.” Rowan remembered Jules tell

him he had a Resting Bitch Face. He tells the scrubs as much. He laughs, “For sure.

Looked like you just had a fight or something.”

“No, it’s uh…” Hold on. This could be something. “Actually, I am kind of upset.”

“New here?”

“Yeah. I’ve never worked in a Triage before and I feel like an idiot.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it.” He smiles at Rowan with a placating

smile.

“Um, can I ask you something?” The scrub nods. “I don’t know if I’m supposed

to know anything about this, but do you know anything about ‘Curitol’?” he asks. The

scrub exhales sharply but slowly.

“I’m not really authorized to talk about it without clearance. What’s your serial?”

Rowan drones out his actual serial without thinking. Shit… wait, he’s ‘new here’, right?

The scrub thinks for a minute. He probably hasn’t heard that one yet.

“Who’s your attending?” he asks.

“Uh, Dr. Kitt.”

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“Why didn’t you just ask her?” Yeah, Rowan, why didn’t you just ask your

attending?

“Well, I didn’t know if I was supposed to have known about it already and I

didn’t wanna look stupid, so I just… I dunno,” he scrunches his face in fake

embarrassment.

“If she really needed you to know about it, then you would’ve probably been

directly notified, if that helps.”

“I guess a little bit?”

The scrubs exhale again.

“Look, I get it. You wanna impress your attending and get good reviews. But you

can’t afford to not know everything you can. The worst that could’ve happened would’ve

probably been you being asked to read on it.” In another context, Rowan might have felt

like he was being talked down to. This advice seemed like the obvious thing to do, but he

doesn’t remember the last time he actively asked for help. The scrub seemed sincere,

albeit frustrated. Rowan nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he waits for the scrub to smile before continuing, “I’m here to learn, not just to work, right?” His fake optimism annoys himself. It works on the scrub, though.

“Exactly. See? You’ll be okay,” the scrub looks at his watch, “but if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to my next post.” He stands up.

“Wait,” Rowan exclaims. The scrub is startled. Maybe he can squeeze out one last drop of sympathy. “Sorry, uh, can you tell me anything about Curitol?” The scrub looks around for other colored scrubs. He sighs then leans down to Rowan.

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“If know an AdPan patient,” he thinks for the right vaguely helpful words,

“Don’t get their hopes up for anything. The tests are decent but something weird keeps happening to patients.” That was vaguely unhelpful. Rowan feigns interest anyway.

“Look, if anyone asks, you heard it in the APU, got it?” Rowan nods. “Good. See you around, kid.” He walks down the hallway.

So Curitol is still a ‘secret’ for PharmaCo and AdPans yet somehow, it’s getting out. Maybe he’s overthinking things. Why do other drugs get outside of hospitals and into the wrong hands? There’s money in addiction. The patients’ thrashing and bleeding and

Dr. Johns’ words swirl around Rowan’s head. It could just be another painkiller or anti- viral. It could be something more. Either way, it could help Isaac somehow. Rowan rips off his scrubs as heads for the showers.

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CHAPTER X

Rowan racks his brain in the tube. If the Triages are the only place anyone can get

Curitol, there’s really no chance of just happening upon it in the city. He thinks about the odds of getting decent transplant organs. People only have so many they can donate and there are only so many people with the right IC score. Not to mention transplant compatibility. A cold, dense pessimism ripples through his body. A small bell rings in the far corners of his brain. He pulls out his textbook and Alert and hopes there might be something helpful. The index says there’s a few passages about transplant basics pre- and post-Pan. He scans around the blocks of text for the right bits.

“… transplant testing involved a variety of factors… Blood Type. Organ Size.

Patient Condition Severity. HLA Typing… some Personnel still take these into consid…

After meticulous research by companies such as PharmaCo… familial transplants are often more successful because of…”

Rowan hadn’t even considered giving Isaac one of his kidneys. He only needed one, but he couldn’t risk any time out of school and work. His lungs suddenly feel two- dimensional from the guilt. He kept reading.

“After the integration of the Immuno-Comp Score System (ICSS), major organ donation and transplantation takes up to 60% less time and cost… donors are listed in the

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patient netw… can be affected by regular drug use. However, if the organ isn’t damaged after a full detox…” So, junkies could buy and sell if they’re clean for long enough and survive withdrawal. But that still doesn’t answer how these transplants can happen outside of a hospital. Useable organs don’t grow outside of labs or bodies. Even the facilities in seedy parts of town can’t sell to anyone without the right paperwork and clearance. The intercom reminds the passengers that WellMart is the next stop. Rowan gets his things together and gets closer to the doors until he sees the neon turquoise sign.

He tries to find the signs for transplant organs. If he could find at least one lung or a useable heart, he’d be happy. They didn’t need to be perfect, just enough to buy Isaac more time. Maybe the New You people can grow Isaac some organs while Rowan works off the layaway debt.

Rowan’s never had to go this far into WellMart. He’s never had the clearance or the need. The Organ section of the store is a giant UV fridge which makes the surrounding area feel cold compared to the rest of the floor. There are two small queues of people, suited and masked and not. One is heading into the actual fridge. The other is being handed clipboards and pamphlets. The doors themselves are guarded by very large suits.

Rowan can see down the aisle in the fridge that there’s more guards every few feet. Can civilians actually gain enough clearance to just buy organs and tissue? Never underestimate the power of a Doctor’s note. Maybe they’re only allowed to look and start payment plans for their bedridden friends and family. Rowan takes a few steps towards the line until he remembers that he has Dr. Weisman’s clearance code. He’s never tried it to get anything more than some extra equipment. He finds what looks like another guard milling between both lines. He walks up to the suit.

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“Hi, I have a clearance code from Sacred Heart. Do I stand in a line or?” he asks.

“Major or minor specimen?”

“Major,”

“Stand in the left-most line and grab a board, fill it out then stand in the fridge line.”

Rowan tries to keep the idea he gets off of his face.

“I have clearance from a Doctor. Sorry, I’ve never had to get an organ before and-”

“Oh, are you new?”

“Uh yeah, a little.” He could work with this. Eyes roll behind the suit’s mask.

“Ask for a 3A form when you get to the front of the line. You’ll be able to put a priority hold out the specimens you need.”

“I can’t take them out?”

“We’ll need to verify your hold number and then prepare the specimen,” his voice is impatient. “Didn’t your attending go over this with you?”

“Oh, uh, not really. He was in a bad mood and I didn’t-,”

“Yeah, yeah fine.” He rolls his eye again. “We’ll get your parts where they need to go if everything checks out.”

Rowan takes a spot at the end of the line. It’s moving faster than he expected. That doesn’t give him much time to pad his cover with plausible truth. He hopes the person giving out the forms is as bored and tired as the guard. He occasionally peeks at the suit handing out the forms. He sees a female face looking over her cheaters only to double check the form. She doesn’t bother looking at whoever’s asking for them.

“Form number?” She asks when he makes it to her.

“Uh, 3A, please,” he tries to sound timid.

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“OCC?” Order Clearance Code. He tries to act ‘new’.

“I’m sorry?” She doesn’t look at him.

“Your Order Clearance Code.” He hopes Dr. Weisman’s ID might be enough to at least get him in the fridge.

“Oh, right. Um, 02,” he pretends to flip through his Alert, “Sorry, I’m still new, uh, 092… 1384, I think? Is there any way I can call him and check?” She looks up at him briefly. Rowan continues, “Weisman. I think he said he wants a-,” She hands him the form before he can say anything.

“Just fill this out and stick it in the corresponding bin over there,” she points to a line of bins mounted on the wall. The labels are a little worn down.

“Do I need to do anything else?”

“Just put on a suit before you go in and take it off before you come out. Next.” He moves out of the line and towards the bins. Someone puts in a form. There’s a buzz like a copy-machine. The bin turns blue and prints out a receipt. The fridge doors part and they walk in. He looks down at the form. The form is made of a thin silicone. There’s a cup full of sanitized dry-erase markers and two people collecting the used ones. He gets through filling out about half of the form before he sees one of the marker collectors walking someone away from the fridge. He needs to fill something in for the order. He writes in a code he thinks he remembers hearing somewhere at his work. Organ orders get passed along pretty frequently.

He puts his form in the bin.

The buzz.

The bin turns blue.

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Holy shit.

He grabs the receipt and walks into the fridge. He looks down at the receipt. There’s a

barcode along with Dr. Weisman’s clearance. He has no idea what they’re for but he

hopes his luck will keep up long enough so he can at least look at the lungs.

The aisles are organized alphabetically. He tries to keep a low profile. He tries to

stay out of every eye-line he notices while he walks towards the hearts. The aisle is too

packed for him to get into right away. He expected as much. He can pick out a few distinct exchanges between upset customers and tired employees.

The aisle for the kidneys has some space in it. He makes his way there. A suit with a scanner gun in a holster finds him. He takes out his scanner and asks for the

receipt. The scanner beeps and turns the same blue the bin turned earlier.

“Says you’re supposed to be looking for lymph nodes?” They should be next to

the lungs. Could be worse. Rowan nods.

“Lymph node, lung, something like that?” He tries to joke. He knows they’re

nothing alike. He knows that the suit knows that. He hopes the suit is too tired to care.

“Oh, those aisles are right next to each other.” Bingo. “Twenty-three and four,

down that way,” he points down towards the ‘L’s. Rowan thanks him and walks away.

The lymph node aisle is actually busier than the lung aisle. Another suit walks up to him

and asks for the receipt. She says the clearance code that Rowan didn’t bother to

memorize and Dr. Weisman’s name.

“I think there’s been a mix-up. I thought I was here for a lung?” Rowan asks. The

eyes behind the mask look confused. She repeats the code. Rowan nods. She types

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something into her scanner gun, then into what looks like a bigger Alert hanging off of

her belt.

“Sorry, this says you’re here for lymph nodes.” Her voice is firm.

“I’m pretty sure my attending ordered a lung this morning,” he pressed.

“The order probably changed before you got here.” That’s genuinely one Rowan’s never heard before.

“Excuse me?” He tries to mimic one of the disgruntled customer’s tone.

“Sometimes the patient dies before the order gets filled and instead of filing a new order with a new code, they’ll just alter the first order to save time.” She’s not shaken.

Rowan sees her try to smile with her eyes. “It happens all the time, trust me.” Rowan’s brain fires.

“Uh, is there any way I could confirm this with my attending?”

“Sure,” she answers a call on her Alert. Someone else needs her somewhere else.

“Go ahead and call him, I’ll be right back.” She walks towards the lymph node aisle, then

goes into another aisle a few down. He casts his eyes down the lung aisle. His feet

commit to walking down it before she comes back. He tries to look as nonchalant as

possible.

I’m positive he needs a lung.

Just a misunderstanding.

I want to make sure I’m at least in the right place.

My attending will fix things.

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The lungs are submerged in clear preservation fluid sealed in specialized sacs that look like IV bags. The UV light makes them all have an eerie purple glow. It looks like most of the reserved specimens are on layaway. Rowan looks at the prices and dates.

REPOSSESED: 10% Rejection Rate

6/mo. (23/05/31) SULLIVAN, R.

$200 remaining DANIELS, E.

1/yr. (03/03/35) PAPAS, M.

He continues towards what looks like unreserved lungs. A few are discounted lab grown.

Most are post-mortem donations. All of them have down payments that are way out of his

price range.

$35,000 Lab Grown

$29,999.99 Donated

$40,000 .1% Rejection Rate

$18,000 Donated w/ Partial Tissue missing

There’s no way Isaac will get close to a lung in time, even with the right clearance.

“Excuse me, sir, you can’t be down here.” The female suit from earlier calls to

Rowan. Her suit swishes towards him. He goes to meet her.

“Oh sorry, I just kinda wandered down here,” he forces naivety and anxiety into

his voice. She exhales.

“Did you get a hold of your attending?” More firing.

“Yeah, he’s pretty upset. Said he’ll send someone else. I’m sorry,” he walks past

the clerk, “I’ll see myself out.” He knows she’s following him until she sees him take the

suit off and exit the fridge.

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Rowan exhales and runs his hands over his face. He needs another plan. Provided

he can have time to think of one if Dr. Weisman doesn’t behead him for what he just did.

He’ll only get to keep working because his IC score and maybe by the grace of the same god that let the world get this sick in the first place. Doubtful. A suit swishes to him with a cup full of used markers. He’s pretty sure it’s the same suit that walked someone away from the fridge.

“Didn’t get what you needed?” he asks. Rowan shakes his head. “Happens more often than you’d think.”

“I don’t know what I was expecting.” He says to the suit. The suit hums in response.

“Y’know there’s gonna be a cure soon.” He walks the markers to a bin full of more markers. Rowan follows.

“To what?” Rowan asks.

“All of it. The Pan and everything else.”

‘Cure for all of it’… no way… he’s an idiot.

“Curitol?” Rowan whispers. The suit nods. “When?”

“Soon. Human trials are lookin’ promising.” Rowan furrows his brows at the suit.

“You got an Advanced Pan? You could probably get ‘im in for testing.” Rowan’s heart races.

“So, what do I have to do? He’s still-,”

“At home? In the ICU? Yeah, I know. You really want in on this? Follow me.”

They walk around the fridge and into the bowels of the WellMart. Rowan debates on

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asking the suit his name at a few points. Images of Isaac at the Triage disorient him. It

takes considerable mental effort to just focus on following the suit.

They come to a door with a UV closet. The man starts to change into a different

suit made of silicone. It’s worn in, in some spots but smells like it’s been sanitized

recently. Rowan looks around but doesn’t find any other suits or even masks.

“Where are we going?” Rowan asks.

“You can walk around without a suit most days?” he asks. Rowan nods. “You

won’t need one where we’re headed.” His arms, legs and neck are peppered with track

marks and bruises from torn-off bandages. There are scabs and scars in varying healing

stages. The newer ones are crusted with cheap surgical glue that he’s probably been

picking at. Rowan wonders if he’s one of the trial participants. He doesn’t look to be in

good health, but if he’s a AdPan patient that’s living past his expiration date, Rowan isn’t

going to argue just yet. The man secures the head covering and mask to the rest of the

suit. He waits for Rowan to show that he’s ready. Rowan doesn’t move.

“You squeamish?” He asks. Rowan shakes his head.

“I work in medicine.”

“Don’t think that’ll help with what’s goin’ on down there.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Once you go down there, you can’t come out unless you’ve contributed a sample.”

“I’m not the patient.”

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“Don’t matter. They need all the data they can get. Healthy blood is just as good as diseased blood, ‘s far as I know.” All of his track marks are covered. “They see

something they like? Y’get shortlisted for testing. Or whoever needs testing. Clear?”

“Yeah.”

“Do y’hereby give yer verbal agreement to disclose no information on what

happens within the next twelve hours to any inquirin’ parties?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Good ‘nough. Follow me.” He opens the door. Rowan’s pupils contract at the

difference in light. The suit walks to an old loading garage. All of the doors that might

have once led to an inside have been welded shut. The suit points towards a large grate

square in the center of the floor. “Last chance to bow out, kid. No guarantee you’ll get

what you’re looking for.”

“There’s a shot at a cure down there?” The suit nods. “Then I’ll go.” The suit

waves his head towards the grate. He waits until Rowan is standing on it. The grate

groans against Rowan’s weight.

“Stand there for a minute.” The suit pulls out an Alert and punches something in.

His screen lights up with a response in seconds. A big elevator motor sounds under

Rowan’s feet. “Stomp your foot three times.” Rowan looks down at his feet. There are

interlocking plates under the grate. He stomps timidly at first and braces for something.

Nothing. “Again, like you mean it.”

BNG.

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The plates hiss and creak open. The grate starts to descend into darkness.

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CHAPTER XI

A familiar damp smell wafts around Rowan as he descends. He hears faint yelling. When he finally gets into light, he’s staring down a narrow, ultra-blue hallway.

He doesn’t remember ever seeing UV-C bulbs at WellMart. He winces at them while he walks down the corridor. He knows he knows what that smell is, but he can’t place it.

The smell gets stronger as he gets to the split in the hallway.

The sign on the left says PERSONNELL.

The one on the right says PATIENTS.

He’s technically Personnel so he walks down the left. The lights expose ever freckle and pore he didn’t know he had. The door at the end of the hall reminds him of the doors in front of the morgue at Sacred Heart. They’re probably made of a reinforced carbon fiber to keep the patients out. A dark caged bulb is on the ceiling above him. A thin slat is under a glass window. He taps on the window first. A few seconds of silence. He knocks in earnest on the metal door. The light turns on, but he can’t tell what color it’s meant to be from all the UVC. A metal slide opens to reveal mask behind the glass.

“You’re here for testing?” it asks.

“Yes.” He says. He can probably clear up that he’s here on behalf of someone later. A silicone clipboard slides through the slat.

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“Fill this out then sign at date it at the bottom, please.” There’s only a half sheet

of paper on it. Rowan’s brow furrows.

NAME:

IMMUNOCOMP SCORE:

SYMPTOMS PRESENTED:

By completing this form, I consent to any and all tests and the conditions

necessary for the duration the CURITOL human trials. I also agree to not disclose

any information to any and all inquiring parties about the CURITOL human trials

He starts to fill out Isaac’s name but stops halfway. Isaac isn’t here. What was he

thinking? Then again, it’s not like he could’ve brought him here anyway.

He covers up ISAA with ROWAN MENDEZ. He finishes the form and slides it back through. He hadn’t notices that the mask didn’t move. Rowan tries to say something but the mask, but they close the slide. The light starts blinking. He notices the smell again. Small, muffled sounds of yells creep in between the silence. The slide swooshes open. Rowan snaps his head to look at the mask behind the glass. The light stops blinking

“We’re ready for you.” They say. The door buzzes open. A chilled breeze wafts over Rowan. The more easily distinguishable scent of medical silicone covers the damp mystery smell. The suit is the same kind that the one upstairs was wearing. They might be next gen for Personnel or something. The suit waves him in. They hand him a pair of what looks like black scrubs, but the material feels more like thin sweatpants. The suit points to a bathroom and tells him to change. He comes back out to see the suit waiting.

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“Listen, I’m not the one who needs testing,” Rowan starts. The suit directs him to

a metal box with polyurethane doors. He sees BHS-1200-CV on the bottom corner. The scanner inside is lit green but fades out in the blue UVC.

“Is the patient with you?” the suit asks.

“No, but”

“Are they stable without life support?”

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t matter.” They direct Rowan into the box. He stands on the feet indicators. “Stand with your arms out slightly, hold still and breathe normally.” They press a few buttons on the screen in front of the box and the scanner turns red. The scanner light goes up and down Rowan’s body within seconds. The machine’s HAL voice booms throughout the room.

“WEIGHT: 172 POUNDS. HEIGHT: SIX FEET AND TWO POINT 6

CENTIMETERS. TEMPERATURE: 98.9 DEGREES. HEART RATE: 117 OVER 18.

OXYGEN LEVEL 99 PERCENT. BRAIN FUCTION: NORMAL. NO SYMPTOMS OF

MULTIPLE PANDEMIC. PATIENT HEALTHY. PLEASE EXIT THE SCANNER.”

Rowan steps out of the box. “SANITIZATION PROCESS WILL BEGIN SHORTLY.

PLEASE PREPARE THE NEXT PATIENT. THANK YOU FOR USING THE

PHARMACO BASIC HUMAN STATISTICS SCANNER. The red light blinks as the

box cleans itself for the next scan. The suit directs Rowan to a chair.

“What do you need me for then?” Rowan asks. Alcohol and iodine are rubbed on

his upper arm. The suit explains each procedure before looking at Rowan’s face to

answer his question.

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“I assume you’re of relation to the patient?” They reader a series of empty vials

and syringes. Rowan nods. “If you don’t react to anything then the patient should, in theory, be fine.” So, he’s basically a control subject? Why was he never informed of this

as an option once Isaac became AdPan? Blood gets drawn and set to a Rapid Panel in the

corner.

“When will he be able to get tested? Or cured or whatever,” Rowan asks between

injections. “This is testing for a cure, right?” He recognizes a standard Tri-Flu Vac.

“Curitol is the first promising iteration of a treatment for patients of the Multiple

Pandemic” Tri-Boost shot. A pinch. “If the testing proves satisfactory, the patient will

receive a trial dose of Curitol.” Pharmaceutical grade Vit&Min shot. Another pinch.

“Then what?” Amino and Synthesis booster shot. Another pinch. Then another.

And another. “Then what? What happens after he gets the Curitol?”

“Last one.” He doesn’t recognize this one. Last pinch.

“What happens?!” Rowan snaps. The suit cleans off the injection sites and seals

them with Second Skin.

“That’s classified,” they hold their hand up before Rowan can protest, “even for

next of kin. And Personnel outside of PharmaCo.” The suit walks towards a fridge.

Rowan tries to stand up but woozes back into his seat. The suit comes back with a pill

cup and some water. “This will help with the drowsiness and any pain for the next

twenty-four hours.” Jesus, how long was this gonna take? Rowan takes the cup. “Crack

the capsule and inhale the powder. Then swallow the capsule.” He looks into the cup. It

looks like a pill that ate a WakeD. He cracks, inhales and swallows as told. He waits for

the familiar sensations.

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Nothing…

still nothing…

more nothing.

Rowan’s spine catches fire, and his eyes shoot open as he jolts out of the chair. He feels hyperaware of his ventricles and his alveoli. He breathes more deeply than he thinks he’s ever breathed before. The suit asks Rowan to confirm all of his information.

“If you’ve used WakeD before, the side effects will feel similar with the addition of blood in your urine for up to twelve hours. If you taste metal at any point, please let us know as it could be a sign of brain damage. This way,” they walk him towards the door he came through. The gloved hand pushes a button and the light outside turns on. They walk down the hall past the sign for PATIENTS. “Once testing begins, you cannot leave until its complete. We will do everything in our power to keep you alive should your vitals start failing. If testing proves successful, your patient will receive their first test dose of Curitol.” The damp smell gets stronger as they walk down the hallway. The stronger it gets, the more familiar it becomes.

Synthetic leather.

Foam padding.

Sweat.

It smells like Rowan’s old MMA gym. The muffled yelling, he thought he heard earlier is getting clearer the closer they get to the door. There’s another caged bulb on the ceiling.

It flashes. The yelling turns into screaming. It becomes fainter before stopping completely. They wait for the flashing to stop. Once it does, the glove keys in a few numbers on the lock. The door buzzes open. Rowan and the suit walk inside.

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CHAPTER XII

There’s a tinted window in front of an octagon. Rowan’s not sure if the whole room is octagonal or just the space behind the window. There are white pads on every inch of the space. All that’s missing are the posts, platform and nets. He thinks about the padded room in an asylum cliché. He thinks about One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and

Arkham Asylum. Then again, who knows what this testing will entail. Maybe it’s not a

cliché after all. Psych is a specialty elective anyway. They meet with a group of three people in suits. Like, suit-suits made of actual fabric with ties and cufflinks and everything. No one wore suits to his parents’ funeral. The admins at the hospitals almost always wore HazMeds. A blond man walks around Rowan, inspecting him. He can smell the vetiver on his neck and the last cigarette he had on his exhalations.

“Is this one early asymptomatic?” His voice sounds expensive. Rowan notices a small enamel PharmaCo pin in his lapel.

“No sir. This is a control subject.” The HazMed replies. The blond grimaces.

“I thought we used the last of the clean HLR pool.”

“He volunteered, sir.” Blond’s eyes sharpen. He speaks directly at the HazMed.

“Pre-existing conditions? History of hard drug use?”

“None.”

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“Chronic injuries?

“None.”

“Genetic predisposition to disease?”

“None. This one has an IC score above the five percent threshold.” The suit-suits

murmur amongst themselves. The blond asks for the clipboard the HazMed was carrying.

He gives it a once over, occasionally looking at Rowan. He’s been a practice patient

before, but this is unnerving. More murmuring. Another suit-suit peers at Rowan every

now and then. He isn’t sure what to expect or even hope for. He came this far for Isaac.

He’d go farther if needed but what can he actually do? He’s probably the healthiest

person these people have seen in a while. What good is he to the search for a cure?

“Look, I’ll do whatever you want. Just make sure my brother gets the dose.”

Rowan shouts at the group. They notice and smirk at one another.

“Oh, you’ve nothing to worry about sir,” the blond says. He walks back to

Rowan. “You’re the best news we’ve had in ages.” He nods to the HazMed. Rowan hears them shuffle somewhere with the other two suit-suits. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a subject like yourself? Much less one who volunteers?”

“What, you just draft people anymore?” Rowan asks. He wants the blond to be offended, but he isn’t.

“I’m afraid not. Too many lines and red tape. I’m sure you’re familiar with HLR.

Only wards of the state can be subjected to testing.” Rowan starts to wonder if there’s actually a conscience somewhere inside the beast of PharmaCo.

“So, what happens now? Rowan asks.

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“You’ve been given your shots, yes?” Rowan nods. “Then follow me,” the blond suit takes him into what looks like a standard patient’s room in a Triage hospital. Bed surrounded by vital equipment. Shower. Rapid Panel in the corner. Privacy curtain.

Cupboards filled with linens, hopefully. A soiled linen disposal. Rowan looks between the blond and the room.

“You can relax here between each trial. Feel free to take as many showers are you need. There’s fresh towels, scrubs and toiletries in the cupboards there,” he points to specific cupboards. “Your clothes will be sanitized and dry-cleaned. You can have them once testing is complete and you are released.” Rowan sits on the bed. It’s standard issue comfortable. He can feel every fiber in the sheets. “Someone will be in with an IV, then

the trails will begin.” He closes the door behind him. Rowan swears he can smell Gold

Dial in the cupboards. He checks to find a bar and a bottle of the offensively yellow soap.

He exhales.

Roaches.

Twinkies.

And motherfucking Gold Dial.

The door clicks open. A new HazMed walks in. There’s no bag or stand for the IV, but

they have a bottle and syringe. Rowan makes a confused face. The suit tells him it’s the

equivalent of a full banana bag of fluids. He hears the plunger forcing liquid into his

veins. Oxygen and hydration whip through his body like an ice storm. He’s never felt

healthier. Maybe the Curitol was in that syringe instead of the pill. Maybe they don’t

want a placebo. He tries to hold onto the feeling before whatever he has to do next.

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The inside of the octagon is the epicenter of the gym smell. When Rowan closes his eyes, he swears he can hear his coach and hits landing into bags and gloves. He looks at the mirror stretching across the back wall. It’s a two way. Makes sense. An intercom chimes.

“Rowan, can you hear me?” It’s a male voice but doesn’t sound like the blond. It might be one of the other suit-suits.

“Yeah, I hear you.” He says.

“Excellent. My colleagues and all of our emergency staff are standing by. The

room you’re in has been sanitized but won’t be again until after each test. You’re going

to be testing the Curitol strain that you received earlier by interacting with contagious

Advanced Multiple Pandemic patients, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Should this strain be effective, you won’t be in any danger of contracting the Multi-Pan or of being infectious to others after testing is complete. The most common side effects of previous strains were belligerence and aggression. We can’t interfere unless absolutely necessary, so please be cautious.” So, they won’t do anything unless someone’s about to die. Great. A buzzer goes off. The door at the opposite end of the room opens. A thin, jaundiced man runs in and stops as he sees Rowan. He looks like a manila envelope with blue veins pulsing underneath the skin. A line of saliva leaks out of his swollen lower lip. There’s no way. He just got into the APU at Sacred Heart not too long ago.

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“Mr. Johnson? Bart, is that you?” Rowan asks. He takes a few tentative steps towards him. His eyes are bloodshot and dilated. He puts his hand up to see if he’s lucid.

Bart grabs Rowan’s had and gnaws on it.

“Jesus, fuck, Bart, calm down!” Rowan says. Bart’s hands crawl and slap their way up Rowan’s torso. He stops biting and screams.

“YOU SONOFABTICH. I’LL KILL YOU.” The corners of his mouth are wet.

He bites towards Rowan’s face. Rowan punches Bart’s abnormally strong forearms up and then bars his way out of Bart’s space. Bart lulls for a blink before charging at Rowan again. He dodges and Bart runs into a corner of the room. He bounces back and keeps

charging.

“Someone do something,” Rowan shouts to the window. “He’s gonna hurt

himself.” Bart launches towards Rowan’s legs. He falls but sweeps out of Bart’s grip and bangs on the glass. “Please, anyone.” The intercom chimes.

“We cannot interfere until it is absolutely necessary.” How the hell is this not absolutely necessary? Bart screams and curses and tries to get any grip on Rowan he can.

“Bart, please, I don’t wanna hurt you,” he puts up his hands. Bart reaches for them but Rowan perries. He jumps behind Bart and throws him to the ground. He hears

Bart’s back crack. He wails in pain. Rowan hesitates. Bart doesn’t stop wailing. He fails back to up his feet and shouts as if his body is moving without his consent.

He gets his hands on Rowan’s shoulders. Rowan steps forward and sweeps Bart’s legs from underneath him with his knee. He pushes up until he hears Bart’s hips snap.

Rowan can’t tell if he has control over them because they didn’t go limp. He doesn’t wait

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to find out. They struggle against each other until Rowan gets Bart’s face in his hitting range.

Rowan’s fists pummel Bart’s face. Blood leaks onto his knuckles after three hits.

They’re nearly covered within seconds. He doesn’t know how much longer either of them can keep this up. Bart’s voice creaks and peters out. Rowan grabs his head and pulls it sharply to the side until he hears what he thinks is the right popping crack. Bart’s limbs stop moving. A loud ring like a flatline echoes through the room. Marsha and Ron flicker in his mind. He waits for Bart to reanimate. Or for someone to rush in to somehow resuscitate and stabilize him. The ringing doesn’t change or stop. The passing moments weigh around his newly fatigued shoulders. Rowan gets up to his feet and looks towards the glass. More ringing. Still nothing.

“0071085 status: No activity of the brain, heart and lungs. Full flatline. Test

01989 is complete.”

What’s left of Bart is a mass of bruises and sores weeping all colors of fluid.

Blood drains and pools around his mouth in a black puddle. Rowan can smell the iron

and bile. He should be nauseated.

“Subject Mendez. Can you describe your symptoms, if any?” The robot asks.

“The fuck was all that? What is this? Is this what this test is?” He shouts at the

window. Silence.

“Subject Mendez. Can you describe your symptoms, if any?”

“Symptoms? Are you serious?”

Subject Mendez. Can you describe your symptoms, if any?”

“Fuck you!”

163

“Mr. Mendez,” the blond’s voice takes over, “Just answer the question. How do you feel?” Rowan wants to rip the tongue from his mouth and make him swallow it.

“I’m fine. No physical symptoms, but-”

“We previously stated that aggression and belligerence are common side effects

of Curitol. What you’re experiencing right now is perfectly normal.” Rowan growls and

shouts out in frustration at no one in particular. “You’ve done well. Please return to your

room and prepare for the next trial-”

“Next trial?” Rowan and the intercom speak over each other to no avail.

“A suited Personnel will-”

“You want me to do this again?” He shouts.

“-help you prepare,”

“Prepare for fucking what?!” His throat is starting to burn.

“Thank you for participating in the Curitol Human Trials.” He falls to the floor.

He hears the buzzer again. A suit comes towards him. He stands up and pushes them

away. He sees a clean-up crew begin to remove Bart’s corpse as he slams his room door shut.

164