Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
After a long beat and with a resigned breath, Annie nods, then walks over with the blood. She puts it into the receptacle in the pod, and we carefully undress Luca, being mindful of his injuries. Other than the damage to his thigh, bruises are beginning to bloom across his torso and chest, a sign of probable internal bleeding. He has abrasions on his arms and legs, a laceration on the side of his jaw. His head—and hopefully his brain—seems relatively unscathed.
We lift him, gently settling him onto the BioVIVE pod platform and attaching the sensors and electrodes to his skin and scalp. Annie inserts the pod’s IV into his arm.
I take one more look at his face. His lips are pale, his golden hair falling away from his smooth, ashen forehead. I’m not ready to say goodbye.
So I won’t.
Bending, I kiss his forehead before pushing the Initiate sequence. The observation screens light up with his vitals: Pulse: 18 bpm. Blood pressure: 70/20 mm Hg. Body temperature: 30°C. EEG: Erratic.
I hold my breath as the platform smoothly slides back and connects, the glossy black top gliding into place until Luca is completely contained in the pod. The lights go on; the machine hums to life. Everything seems to be working.
But I don’t know how I’m going to survive the next couple of hours waiting to find out if I’ve lost my husband tonight.
8 HIM
The world is dark, and warm, and small.
And beeping.
Eyes open, but it’s the same as eyes closed.
Complete blackness.
Inside my chest, my… what is it called?
It’s thrashing.
Pinpricks cover my hands and feet.
Heart. It’s called a heart.
I swallow. Gravel against glass.
I don’t know what I am, or where.
It’s cold but then—not.
Warmth seeps into me, core to extremities. A flushing sensation down every limb.
As easy as sinking into a warm bath.
Other sounds rise from outside this world.
Humming.
No, that isn’t right.
The sounds crystallize and take shape: “Pulse 30 bpm.”
A voice. That’s what it’s called.
A different voice this time, thicker, softer, occluded somehow. “Oh my God. Annie. It’s working. He’s okay. He’s okay.”
“Not yet. He’s got to take a conscious breath. Forty bpm. BP 89/60 and rising. Temp 93°F.”
I feel myself taking shape, filling out the flesh of my body.
An urge rises, undeniable, a spasm in my midsection, and I pull in a breath so sharp, so deep, pain crashes through me.
“Respiration!” The beeping doubles, one on top of another.
Someone outside of the blackness is keening. The sound twists my gut.
“Open it.” The voice is thicker, shaking, unformed.
“Not yet, Em.”
“I need to see him!” There’s pain in the voice, desperation. It tugs at some impulse deep inside me.
“Go sit down over there. My God, you’re driving me crazy.”
I close my eyes again and focus on the sensation of pulling breaths in, pushing them out. I try moving my fingers, my toes. I think about what I am—a human, a person, a man. I wonder where I am. I wonder whether this is how we’re born. Into blackness, with words and thoughts and language.
I don’t think that’s right.
I’m not born, but I’m not… whole yet, either.
“Okay, I’m opening the pod. No, Em, stay put. Just—fucking chill.”
There’s a louder beep, then a slight jerk beneath me as the surface on which I lie begins to shift.
The air cools, the sun bright overhead. It’s blinding, painful, and I groan.
“Dim the lights, Em.”
Not the sun, then.
The light dims and the relief is immediate. A woman moves into view. Which voice is she? Her eyes are red-rimmed, so I think she’s the one who’s been crying. Even with watery eyes, she’s beautiful. Her hair is dark and pinned on top of her head, a few strands escaping confinement and falling softly around her face. Her eyes are brown with a streak of copper in the right one. It makes me think of a penny at the bottom of a fountain, a slash of sunlight reflected in its shiny surface.
“Luca?”
I frown. I don’t know this word, but then I realize: It isn’t a word. It’s a name.
“Luca, can you hear me?”
“I can hear you.” I’m surprised by my own voice. It’s deep, scratchy. It rumbles through me.
Another woman moves into view, setting a blanket over me. I’m distracted by the sharp, astringent smell in the air, the sudden tightness all over my body. Stickers, everywhere. When I try to lift my hand, it’s weighted down by tubes and wires, a heaviness that seems to go straight to my bones.
“Luca, sweetie.” The beautiful one kneels beside me. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I swallow again and it’s easier this time. I wonder if it’s rude, but I need to ask. Clearing my throat, I press the words out: “Who are you?”
9 LUCA
The two women exchange looks, and tears well in the red-rimmed eyes closest to me. She blinks quickly like she doesn’t want me to see.