her institute. If they wanted to chop him up and see if they could find what made him different from all other virus children, why he didn’t get the same kiss of brain-damaged death as the rest of them, they were free to go nuts. Pulp him in a blender for all he cared. A dead body was just a piece of meat, and dead people didn’t give a shit what you did with them. The bright side of being dead, as far as he could tell, was no longer having to give a shit about anything.
It wasn’t long before he was going out of his mind. He had no idea what was wrong with him. He’d bought a lot of used books at a bookstore in Vancouver, and he had lots of shows to catch up on, but after a pointlessly big breakfast (scrambled eggs with salsa and cheese, bacon, spicy sausage, toast with cinnamon sugar, chai tea liberally cut with cream—fuck it, if he was dying, it wasn’t going to be on a diet), he found himself full of restless energy. He popped a couple of Vicodin, along with the experimental meds Doctor Singh gave him. He had no idea if they were working, if they would prevent an aneurysm, and he wasn’t sure she knew either. All he knew was sometimes they left him with an odd, light-headed feeling that wasn’t altogether unpleasant. As side effects went, this one he didn’t mind.
He’d started working out on his heavy bag, but gently, because he didn’t want to accidentally bring out the lion and he didn’t want to wake Dylan, who had closed the bar last night and hadn't got home until almost four in the morning. He was thinking of quitting the bar, but not until he found another job. Sadly, there wasn’t much out there for an art major, but maybe he could get in at another bar where they would let him wear a shirt.
When the phone rang, Roan let it go to machine, but he heard Doctor Rosenberg cussing at him, so he picked it up. “You were gonna let me go to machine, you bastard,” she carped. “Here I am trying to save your life, and this is the thanks I get. Shmendrek.”
“Hey, you get bugged by the press and answer your damn phone.”
“I have been. I’m the expert in infecteds, remember? They all want to talk about you. Luckily, I get to point out you’re a patient and confidentiality rules prohibit me from discussing you or anything about you. So they go to that shithead Riley, and he makes these outrageous statements like infecteds can take on psychosomatic feline tendencies. What fucking bullshit. I bet he gets a book deal and goes on Doctor Phil.”
He had no idea who Riley was, but he assumed a rival doctor. “So I’m a psychosomatic lion? Interesting. What about the bleeding?”
“I dunno. Maybe he thinks you bit your lip. Look, you’re gonna go into cycle this week, aren’t ya?”
She really wasn’t much for foreplay. “Yeah. I’m not turning myself in to the hospital.”
“Turn yourself in to me. Come by tomorrow. I’m gonna chemically induce a coma.”
“Pardon?”
“Listen to me: you need more time for the meds you’re on now to work. You know we got safe rooms here, private safe rooms. You’ll still change while in a coma, but it shouldn’t be as hard on your system. If your blood pressure was absurdly low, raising it twofold won’t matter. This will work.”
“You’re guessing.”
“But it’s a good guess. Look, fuck your pride—you wanna live another month or not?”
Man, she was relentless, wasn’t she? That was why he liked her, but also why he hated her at the same time. “Yeah, of course, but—”
“So get your ass down here tomorrow. I’d prefer morning, but, knowing you, I’ll have to settle for afternoon. Now, you gonna do it, or do I tell Dylan?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
He sighed. “Oh, goddamn it.”
“See you tomorrow, Roan. Or else.”
She rang off, and he wondered why he kept her as a doctor. Because she was smarter than everyone else
It wasn’t long before he was going out of his mind. He had no idea what was wrong with him. He’d bought a lot of used books at a bookstore in Vancouver, and he had lots of shows to catch up on, but after a pointlessly big breakfast (scrambled eggs with salsa and cheese, bacon, spicy sausage, toast with cinnamon sugar, chai tea liberally cut with cream—fuck it, if he was dying, it wasn’t going to be on a diet), he found himself full of restless energy. He popped a couple of Vicodin, along with the experimental meds Doctor Singh gave him. He had no idea if they were working, if they would prevent an aneurysm, and he wasn’t sure she knew either. All he knew was sometimes they left him with an odd, light-headed feeling that wasn’t altogether unpleasant. As side effects went, this one he didn’t mind.
He’d started working out on his heavy bag, but gently, because he didn’t want to accidentally bring out the lion and he didn’t want to wake Dylan, who had closed the bar last night and hadn't got home until almost four in the morning. He was thinking of quitting the bar, but not until he found another job. Sadly, there wasn’t much out there for an art major, but maybe he could get in at another bar where they would let him wear a shirt.
When the phone rang, Roan let it go to machine, but he heard Doctor Rosenberg cussing at him, so he picked it up. “You were gonna let me go to machine, you bastard,” she carped. “Here I am trying to save your life, and this is the thanks I get. Shmendrek.”
“Hey, you get bugged by the press and answer your damn phone.”
“I have been. I’m the expert in infecteds, remember? They all want to talk about you. Luckily, I get to point out you’re a patient and confidentiality rules prohibit me from discussing you or anything about you. So they go to that shithead Riley, and he makes these outrageous statements like infecteds can take on psychosomatic feline tendencies. What fucking bullshit. I bet he gets a book deal and goes on Doctor Phil.”
He had no idea who Riley was, but he assumed a rival doctor. “So I’m a psychosomatic lion? Interesting. What about the bleeding?”
“I dunno. Maybe he thinks you bit your lip. Look, you’re gonna go into cycle this week, aren’t ya?”
She really wasn’t much for foreplay. “Yeah. I’m not turning myself in to the hospital.”
“Turn yourself in to me. Come by tomorrow. I’m gonna chemically induce a coma.”
“Pardon?”
“Listen to me: you need more time for the meds you’re on now to work. You know we got safe rooms here, private safe rooms. You’ll still change while in a coma, but it shouldn’t be as hard on your system. If your blood pressure was absurdly low, raising it twofold won’t matter. This will work.”
“You’re guessing.”
“But it’s a good guess. Look, fuck your pride—you wanna live another month or not?”
Man, she was relentless, wasn’t she? That was why he liked her, but also why he hated her at the same time. “Yeah, of course, but—”
“So get your ass down here tomorrow. I’d prefer morning, but, knowing you, I’ll have to settle for afternoon. Now, you gonna do it, or do I tell Dylan?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
He sighed. “Oh, goddamn it.”
“See you tomorrow, Roan. Or else.”
She rang off, and he wondered why he kept her as a doctor. Because she was smarter than everyone else
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