Henry Franks(58)

In his bedroom, he flipped through the scrapbook without speaking; one picture of his mother, smiling as she looked at him, kept his attention.

“I’m sorry,” Justine said.

“Not your fault.”

“You always say that.” She took his hand. A single photograph, of Henry caught between his parents. On the monitor, another picture, of Henry gaunt and losing his battle with cancer.

“When will you leave?” she asked.

“For Birmingham?”

She nodded but didn’t speak.

“Someone from Children’s Services stopped by. Not really sure what’s going to happen. Besides, what would I say? What would I do? I don’t remember anyone.”

“You have friends there,” Justine said.

“I have you, here.” He looked at her and ran his finger down her cheek. A tiny scar was all the evidence remaining on her face of the storm. “I’d rather stay.”

“Henry.”

“Justine,” he said before kissing her, wrapping his arms around her and holding tight. He broke the kiss and looked down at her, so close he could feel her breath warm on his skin. “I’m dying.”

She tried to push him away but he wouldn’t let her go.

“Again,” he said, soft and gentle.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she asked.

“The pills. Look.” He pointed his chin at the desk. A plastic tray rested next to his laptop; over half the compartments were empty.

“Get more,” she said.

“I can’t. My father made them. He mixed them himself.”

“Henry.”

“I tore his room apart, trying to find notes, but there was nothing. He must have gotten rid of everything with those old photographs. I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.” She squeezed her eyes shut, clutching her fists into his shirt, burying her head into his shoulder.

He could feel her tears soaking through the fabric. She sobbed against him and he rubbed her back, pulling her still closer.

“When?” she said.

He shrugged against her. “Soon? I don’t know. Eventually, my body will reject the transplants. I think that’s what happened to my mother.”

“You’re still you, Henry,” Justine said.

“Am I?” he asked, running a hand through his hair so that it was no longer covering his eyes. “Which part of me is me?”

She kissed him, once, short and fierce. “Did you feel that?”

Henry nodded.

Justine ran her fingers across his face. “Feel that?” she said, so quietly the words were little more than a breath in his ear.

“Yes.”

“Don’t give up,” she said. “Don’t you dare. There are doctors; they’ll help you.”

“What can I tell them?” he asked. “‘My father put my head on someone else’s body’? Even I don’t believe that and it happened to me.”

“Tell them anything,” she said. “Tell them nothing or everything or something in between. Just try. Please, for me, try.”

He nodded.

“You could give them the pills—can’t they analyze them or something?”

“You talk too much, you know that?” he said, brushing a kiss across her forehead.

“I’m sorry.” Justine smiled, then lifted her lips to his.





epilogue




Justine Franks, MD, FACS

St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA

Tuesday, December 21, 2027

Patient X

Patient presents with systemic organ failure due to general transplant rejection. Past history suggests patient has developed immunity to all but toxic levels of immunosuppressants and nanotech-based anti-rejection medications. Research continues in conjunction with the Emory University Transplant Center into the effects of the Franks laser weld on the regeneration of spinal stem cells, but the prognosis for Patient X remains constant: complete failure of all transplanted systems imminent.

Prescription at this time is to continue IV Interferon therapy in overdose quantities as well as gluccocorticoids; opioids, as needed, for pain management. Patient has been entered into rotation for current drug testing trials for bio-engineered nanotech and gene therapy that has shown promise in early stage animal experimentation, but the prognosis is unchanged.



Justine pushed herself back from the desk and put her tablet to sleep. The screen flickered once and went dark. She rubbed her eyes, took a deep breath, and dropped her head back, staring at the ceiling.

“Lights,” she said. The LEDs dimmed, leaving sunlight alone to illuminate her office. Shadows from the trees outside the window crawled across the room. With a heavy breath, she stood up and stretched.

Across the hall, Justine put scrubs on over her clothes, then washed her hands and arms in the stainless steel sink before applying disinfectant and gloving up. Outside the bathroom, she stepped into self-sealing surgical booties on the hardwood floor. From windows high up the walls, sunlight filtering through the Spanish moss lit up the air.

The master bedroom door still had the deadbolt lock, but it opened at a touch of her elbow on the sensor next to the knob. Inside, the curtains had been left open, filling the room with December warmth from the Georgia sun. Justine absorbed the data from the bank of machines lining the walls with just a look.