I, Robot: To Protect

Chapter 9

When Susan arrived at the first-floor charting room, she found Remington Hawthorn and N8-C sitting across from each other and engaged in spirited conversation.

Already dressed in his scrubs, Remington was speaking. “. . . it’s intradural, intramedullary with decreased posterior column sensation, pain localized to two fingers’ breadths over the lower spine, no correlation with time of day.”

Nate did not hesitate. “Family history? Maybe . . .”

“Von Hippel-Lindau,” they said together, then laughed.

Spotting Susan, they went silent.

“Good morning,” she said cheerily.

“Good morning, Susan,” they replied, still simultaneously. Then, they looked at each other and laughed again.

Susan perched on the arm of Remington’s chair. “You’re scaring me.”

“He’s amazing,” Remington admitted. “Makes me wonder how many thinking robots we already have on staff. Some of the guys I work with don’t show any emotion at all.”

“I’m the only humanoid robot at Hasbro,” Nate said. “I cost in the range of one hundred million dollars. And I do show emotions, when it’s appropriate.”

“So you figured it out on your own.” Susan had not expected Remington to identify Nate so quickly. Nate had told her his status almost immediately, but he had recognized her name and knew she had the family robotics background to believe him. “And you know it’s true?”

“Given our prior conversation at the restaurant, finding him here after ten p.m. yesterday and before seven a.m. today was a dead giveaway.”

Nate smiled. “I’d like to point out you were also here after ten p.m. yesterday and before seven a.m. today.”

Susan sucked in her lips, but she knew her eyes revealed her amusement.

“Well, yes,” Remington admitted. “But I can’t peel off the skin of my leg and reveal circuitry wrapped around my muscles, can I?”

Susan could not resist teasing, “Can you?” Nate had not given her the same amount of proof; she had not required it.

Remington reached for Susan’s hand, caught it, and gave it a squeeze. “How about I prove it after our date on Friday?”

Susan could not recall making one. “Do we have a date on Friday?”

“I guess that’s up to you.”

Susan clasped Remington’s fingers. “Friday, it is. How’s Starling?”

“Great.” Remington rose, released her hand, and looked at his Vox. “They moved her from intensive recovery to the regular unit this morning. I’d stop down today if you want to see her before she leaves.”

“Today?” Susan could scarcely believe it. “You mean discharge? Home? Already?”

“I told you we’re quick.” Remington shrugged. “No reason to keep her.” He tapped the Vox. “I have to go. If I’m late for rounds, I’ll get stuck with hole-drilling duty for a week.”

Susan preferred not to know what that entailed. She waved as he rushed out the door, then turned to Nate. “What do you think?”

“Of Remy?”

“Yeah.”

Nate did not spend long in consideration. “I like him.”

“Me, too,” Susan admitted. “What were you two doing when I came in?”

“Talking neurosurgery.” Nate made a vague gesture toward the books. “You know, I was programmed to perform menial jobs: transporting patients, consent signing, cleanup, surgery prep, hand holding, bed making.”

“Really?” It seemed a ridiculous waste of his brilliance.

“Then, staff started worrying I’d take their places, lawyers speculated a malfunction might drive me berserk, and fear of more protests drove me into seclusion.”

Susan glanced around the large room with its shelving, bric-a-brac, and old-fashioned textbooks. Since she had come here her first night on call, she had developed an appreciation for the quiet nook with its simple table, its clashing chairs, its comfortable couches. She could think of far worse prisons. “So, you . . . live here?” It seemed altogether the wrong verb for robotic existence. “All the time?”

“Here?” Nate made hand motions to indicate the room. “I’m not a vacuum cleaner stored in a closet, Susan. I spend time in the research tower, when I’m working on a project. I can move about freely within the hospital, if I choose. I just happen to like it here. It’s quiet, so no one bothers me. It’s full of computers and books, adjacent to the central processing area. The only people who come here are residents hiding from work, attendings, or other residents when they find a few moments to spare. And, of course, those few, like you and Remy, who know to look for me here.”

Susan had not yet figured it out. “What exactly do you do here?” Then, recalling what he had told her previously of the differing expectations of U.S. Robotics, the hospital administrators, and certain members of the staff, she amended her question. “I mean, I know some of the doctors, mostly researchers, use you as a sounding board, a fact-checker, an assistant. But what do you do all day? What is your basic job?”

“Anything that doesn’t involve patients. I spend most of my time on the computer, searching for charting errors, inconsistencies, mistakes, incomplete notes. Things like that. I transport inanimate objects such as bedding, pillows, and blankets from the laundry to the storage areas.”

“What a waste.”

Nate shrugged. “It leaves me lots of time outside my official duties. I have access to plenty of information. I started with the books and worked my way to the legitimate online medical sites.” He indicated a palm-pross left on the room’s only table. “Since I only have to read or hear things once, it’s easy to stay current. So, when the research staff send articles for me to proofread or ask for help on their projects, I have no trouble assisting them.”

Susan was surprised. “So I’m not the only doctor who visits you?” Nate grinned. “Just the prettiest.”

To Susan’s surprise, she found herself blushing. “Sweet.” She looked at her own Vox, though the time did not matter. The sooner she headed for the PIPU, the more she could contribute at rounds. “I have to go, now, too. But I’ll come back when I can.”

Nate waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be counting the hours till your return.”

Amazing, Susan thought as she left. He’s even programmed for flirting and sarcasm.

As Susan trotted toward the PIPU, she realized “programmed” was not the right word. As her father had described it, the positronic brain contained a network of circuitry as complex as the human brain. Nate might have started with some basic programs, the Three Laws of Robotics, for example, and the English language; but he had self-developed the remainder of his personality through thought, intention, and experience.

That latter realization would have floored Susan Calvin, had she not already discussed it with her father. The genius behind the invention had a name, Dr. Lawrence Robertson, the president of U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc. He had calculated the necessary data to create a spongy globe of platinum-iridium that replaced miles of relays and photocells and had ultimately become the positronic brain. Someday, Susan hoped, she would meet this supergenius.

Susan hurried to the locked PIPU door and buzzed for entrance. A familiar nurse’s voice came over the intercom system. “Good morning, Dr. Calvin.”

Susan waved in the general direction of the all-but-invisible camera. “Good morning, Saranne. May I come in?”

“On my way.”

The clunky, old-fashioned system of the PIPU never ceased to confound Susan. It seemed foolish to retain a lock system that required a human to physically key through two heavy doors. Apartment buildings had had direct-wired buzzer systems serving dozens of stories since at least her grandmother’s time, and cheap voice, print, or laser identification systems had existed for decades. The best explanation Susan had heard was that any push-button system would become liable to access by patients; coded entries required too-frequent maintenance for staff changes that would result in loss of patient confidentiality. The strong steel doors could withstand attacks that lighter electronic systems could not, and any attempt at tampering would become instantly obvious.

At the least, Susan had to admit the system had worked for longer than two centuries. And the ponderous, gloomy simplicity of it made the whole unit appear equally old.

Susan heard the lock click. The windowless door eased toward her. She caught the edge to help the nurse open it. Slender as a willow, and fine-boned, Saranne struggled with the enormous panel, just as any of the pediatric patients would. She had short blond hair in a feathered cut, china doll features, and pert blue eyes.

“Thank you,” Susan said. She looked up and noticed the usually gray hallway now held a dozen brightly colored balloons. Several of the nurses and unit staff milled around the area, beneath a banner reading CONGRATULATIONS! Already trained to the rules, Susan scooted inside and let the door slam shut behind her. Saranne relocked it, placing the key in her flowered scrub-shirt pocket.

“Congratulations?” Susan glanced around the smiling group, bewildered. “Thank you. But what have I done to deserve all this?”

Murmurs swept the group, and Saranne slapped Susan’s shoulder approvingly. “Discharge orders for Diesel Moore. Starling Woodruff off the service forever and about to go home from Neurosurgery!”

Someone else called out, “All in your first four days.”

They came at Susan en masse.

“Congratulations, Doc.”

The fuss embarrassed Susan. She had never liked being the center of attention. Smiling, bobbing her head, cautiously working her way to the unit door, she turned to face them all. “Thank you so much. I’ll try my very best to live up to your expectations.” She wanted to deflate the excitement, to remind them she had gotten lucky. Both patients had had hidden medical diagnoses that, once exposed, made their treatment so much easier. But doing so might denigrate the residents and attendings who had come before her, those who had not made those same medical diagnoses. She reached for the door handle, knowing she would find it locked.

A male nurse named Jordan unlocked the unit door, while the other staff discussed the dispensation of banner and balloons. They could not allow balloons on the unit for fear some patients might pop them to torment others who had phobias, nightmares, or delusions.

Susan headed for the charting area, surprised to receive smiles and applause from the remaining staff as well. She nodded at everyone she saw, then attempted to duck into the staffing area. Before she got there, a small child latched onto her leg.

Susan looked down to see Sharicka. She was not surprised to observe that someone had bent the balloon rule; Sharicka clutched the string of a crimson balloon filled with helium, and she enwrapped Susan’s leg in a deathless embrace. “Dr. Thuzan!” she sang out, with just a hint of a lisp. “Sit with me. Pleeease.”

Susan could not resist the childish tones and apparent sincerity. She sat in one of the plush chairs in the television room, ignoring the movie that seemed to have most of the patients mesmerized.

Sharicka climbed into Susan’s lap, snuggling against her. “You never told me you were my doctor.” She popped a thumb into her mouth, speaking around it. “I was scared I didn’t have a doctor no more.”

In her days observing the young girl, Susan had never seen her suck her thumb before. She wondered what it meant: Was it a conscious or unconscious action, a deliberate ruse, or expression of emotion? Did a four-year-old even have the mental connections and experience to play such intricate games with an adult? “You have a doctor, Sharicka,” Susan said with proper adult reassurance. “I’ve just gotten so busy with other patients, I haven’t had time to get to know you.” She did not mention her silent observations. She did not want to cue Sharicka.

“I heared ya fixed ’em.” Sharicka snuggled even closer. “I wants ya ta fix me, too.”

The baby talk annoyed Susan. She had overheard Sharicka enough times to know she had a more than competent vocabulary.

“Can ya fix me?” Sharicka gazed into Susan’s face with adoration, her eyes so sweet and dark, Susan could not help smiling.

“I don’t know. I’d need your help, Sharicka.”

The little girl’s eyes transformed in that instant. Susan could not have explained the change in any logical or biological manner. It seemed as if the sockets sank to a slant as she watched them, and a bonfire smoldered, deep and unreachable. Those eyes speared through Susan like a physical weapon, painful, terrifying, inhuman. She shivered involuntarily.

Then, just as quickly, they reverted back to the same innocent child eyes Susan had melted for earlier. “I’ll do whatever I gotta do, I pwomise. I’ll take all my meds. I’ll be gooder than good.”

Susan tried to convince herself she had imagined the strange distortion in Sharicka’s appearance. Nothing scientific could explain it, and she believed only in the real and earthly, the provable. Nevertheless, she wanted to get as far away from the child as possible. “That sounds wonderful, Sharicka.” Susan half rose, sliding the girl toward the floor.

Sharicka drew up her feet, refusing to stand. “I want to stay here with you, Dr. Susan.”

“I’m sorry,” Susan said firmly, sliding the girl onto the couch cushion. “I have work to do, but I’ll check on you later.”

Sharicka allowed herself to be placed, though Susan thought she caught another glimpse of the strange light in her face, those weird demon eyes. Repulsed, Susan turned away and headed back toward the staffing room.

The instant Susan entered the staffing area, Kendall caught her arm and guided her to a far corner. “So,” he said, “how was your date with the dreamy eunuch?”

Still focused on Sharicka, Susan was caught off guard. “What?”

“Your date,” Kendall said impatiently. “With the handsome surgeon you castrated.”

Susan finally got it. “I decided he was worthy, so I sewed ’em back on.”

“Really?” Kendall sat, resting his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand. “A surgeon worthy of procreation? You’d better not tell his associates. They’ll throw him out of his residency.”

Susan knocked his arm away, and Kendall had to twitch backward to keep his chin from hitting the table. “Now who’s being a jerk?”

“Me,” Kendall admitted. “But at least I’m not pompous.”

Susan wondered if Kendall reduced everything in his life to a joke.

Kendall changed the subject abruptly, speaking in low tones that did not carry. “Your brilliance is garnering some attention, Calvin.”

Susan did not know exactly how to answer that. “I got lucky with a couple of patients. I don’t understand why everyone’s making such a circus out of it.”

“Because it’s the PIPU.” Kendall looked around to make certain no one had drawn near enough to eavesdrop. Several of the other residents were in the room, reading palm-prosses or dictating notes. Monk Peterson looked at them several times, but no one else seemed to notice them. “Children aren’t hospitalized in locked units unless it’s absolutely necessary. These are the worst of the worst, the sickest of the sick. If they come here, they stay no less than a month, and it’s more often for years. You sent home a lifer and a potential lifer in your first week. That’s nothing shy of mind-blowing.”

“I got lucky,” Susan reiterated firmly, hoping she had just gotten the last word.

“You got brains,” Kendall corrected. “And a skill with old-fashioned, low-tech observation. You used them. That has nothing to do with luck.”

Susan shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I just did what was best for my patients, and that’s all any of us wants or tries to do.”

Kendall would not let it go. “Yes, but you’re the one who succeeded. I think that’s great. The nurses love you. Dr. Bainbridge is proud to have you on his service; it makes him look good, too. But some of the other residents . . .”

Susan cringed, certain she did not want to hear what came next. “Our colleagues? What about them?”

“Some of them are jealous.”

“They needn’t be.”

“But they are.”

Susan glanced toward the residents again. They remained mostly in the same places. Only Monk looked away when she caught his eye. She saw a vague impression of a daggered glare before he returned his attention to his screen. “So, what do you want me to do about it? Deliberately mess up?”

Kendall chuckled. “Of course not. You should do exactly what you’re doing, Calvin. Don’t ever let other people’s negative emotions stop you from going on to great things. I’m just warning you to be careful. Not everyone has your best interests at heart.”

That’s sad. She truly did not understand why others might wish her ill simply because she had done well. “That’s crazy and petty and . . . just plain . . . stupid.”

“Yes, it is,” Kendall agreed wholeheartedly. “And who understands that better than psychiatry residents?”

Susan flushed. She did not understand it. Perhaps Remington had a point; she did not belong in psychiatry if she found herself flummoxed by something others saw as basic human nature. Yet, even as the thought arose, she found herself intrigued by the reaction Kendall had described. She wanted, in fact needed, to comprehend it; and that only proved she had chosen the right career path. “Why do you suppose they would feel that way?”

Kendall sat, placing both hands loosely in his lap. “If you’ll pardon my psychoanalyzing our colleagues, it’s not that uncommon a reaction for people whose self-esteem derives from being the smartest person in the room. When they get dethroned, they feel uncomfortable and displaced, and it’s not unnatural to harbor anger against a usurper.”

Susan wondered why it never bothered her. She had always felt awed and safe in the presence of genius. Perhaps because my father is one, and he tells me Mother was, too. To me, it’s normal. “Kendall, how come I don’t threaten you?”

Again, Kendall looked around the office, leaning toward Susan and lowering his voice even further. “If you started getting all the laughs, you might. I needed a tutor to make it through college calculus. I graduated in the middle of my medical school class. My sense of worth doesn’t stem from being the smartest person in the room. It comes from cracking jokes. You’re not terribly funny, so you’re no threat to me.”

Susan vowed not to kid around during rounds. She did not need anyone else disliking her.

“And there’s a personality factor, too. Some people feel secure about their self-worth, regardless of the situation. People like Stony. And I don’t think there’s a jealous bone in Clamhead’s body.” He laughed, adding, “The way he flops around, I sometimes wonder if there’re any kinds of bones in his body.”

Susan chuckled, knowing Kendall meant it good-naturedly. Somehow, it was all right for them to make fun of Clayton Slaubaugh, so long as no one outside the “family” did so.

“In fact,” Kendall said, “to show you how little concerned I am about your showing me up, I’m hoping you can help me with a patient.”

Susan looked through the glass. The nurses had wheeled out the medicine cart, and Sharicka stood near it, looking over the tiny paper cups. The little girl always drew Susan’s attention. “I’m happy to help anyone. Just don’t expect something preternaturally brilliant. I can put things together and make some intuitive leaps, but I don’t have a photographic memory.”

“It’s about Connor Marchik.”

Susan could not help wincing. The fifteen-year-old boy had primary hepatic carcinoma, refractory to every form of treatment. Genetic markers, personally targeted medications, blood cell therapies, monoclonal antibodies, radiation, and even multiple cocktails of tried and true chemotherapy drugs had proven useless against it. Every week, the oncologists came down with a new attempt at decreasing the tumor load, something to prolong Connor’s life a bit longer. The boy had built a wall around himself that kept everyone, at times even his parents, at bay. Like a badger, he remained perpetually angry, attacking when someone tried to tempt him from his cave.

Susan bit her lower lip and shook her head hopelessly. “Believe me, Kendall. I have nothing the oncologists haven’t already tried.”

Kendall rolled his eyes. “Even the nurses don’t think you’re God.”

Susan lowered her head and looked up at Kendall, trying to appear appropriately chastened.

“I’m not asking you to cure his cancer. I just wonder if you have a thought about how to draw him out.”

Susan started to speak but only sighed. She tried again. “Connor has every right to be angry; the universe or God or Mother Earth or whatever theology you ascribe to has treated him incredibly unfairly.”

“Agreed.” Kendall gave her a searching look. “Aside from that whole, rambling, politically correct ‘theology’ thing. But no one should spend his last years in a fog of impenetrable rage, especially when he has so few of them in the first place.”

Susan knew Kendall had a point. She could argue Connor ought to be allowed to act any way he wished to in his last months, but it seemed foolish. Connor’s anger had a reasonable explanation, but that did not mean he necessarily enjoyed it or wanted to spend the rest of his life enmeshed in it. “Nothing like jokes to cheer a person. And you clearly have a million of them.”

Kendall shook his head. “I’ve tried humor. I’ve gotten a rare smile, but he still chases me out of the room.”

“That rare smile is probably more than most people have managed.”

Kendall ran both hands through his hair, until it stuck up in ruddy spikes. “Maybe, but it’s not enough. It might win him over in time, but time is something he doesn’t have enough of.”

“Yes.” Susan watched Sharicka wander away from the medicine cart to sit in a plush chair and watch television. The well-cushioned chair made her look like a pudgy doll in its recesses. She no longer carried the balloon, instead clutching a stuffed monkey that looked worn and well loved. She placed the plushie in her lap, facing it toward the screen. “What does Connor do all day?”

“He lies in bed with a palm-pross on his chest. That’s about it. Day in and day out, just sitting or lying in various positions and sucking in passive entertainment.”

“What kind of passive entertainment?”

“Sports. Cartoons,” Kendall said. “I’ve noticed manga, and he does keep a stuffed animal in his bed. I’m not sure what it is; he won’t let me close enough to see it. It’s battered, though. He’s either had it a long time, or it takes the brunt of his anger.”

Susan had no special tricks up her sleeve. “Would you mind if I looked in on him this morning? It might give me some ideas.”

Kendall made a broad, dismissive gesture. “Be my guest. I’m not proud. Anything you can do to make things better is all right by me.” He winked at Susan. “If you can make me the hero this time, so much the better.”

Susan gave him a single, strong nod. “I’ll try my best.” She resisted the urge to tease him. To even jokingly suggest he did not have the stuff to become a champion meant vaunting her successes even further.

Susan headed out of the room to check on her patients before rounds. Diesel had an early-morning counseling session with his parents, a dietitian, an endocrinologist, and a social worker, preparing him for discharge. He could wait until after rounds. She headed for Monterey’s room, more in dutiful obligation than any hope she might accomplish anything. After a short visit, she intended to check on Connor Marchik.

Susan had barely exited the staffing area when an alarm bell shrilled through the corridor and over every PIPU Vox, directing them to the PIPU patient lounge. Silver light flashed around the television area, where a nurse named Alicia performed the Heimlich maneuver on Kamaria Natchez, a refractory schizophrenic patient of Nevaeh’s. Kamaria’s face had turned bluish, and she clutched wildly at her throat while the nurse drove both fists into her abdomen.

The children had scattered. A few watched curiously, including Sharicka Anson, who stood on her chair for a better view. Most bolted to their rooms, terrified either of the events or of getting blamed for them. A few cowered behind the furniture. Nurses came running, but Susan reached Kamaria and Alicia first. As the nurse was properly performing the technique, Susan did not attempt to take over. She merely stood by, waiting for Alicia to request assistance or for the situation to change.

It did, and swiftly. Kamaria went suddenly limp in Alicia’s arms. The nurse looked hopefully at Susan.

“Lay her down,” Susan said calmly. “On the floor. You need to clear her airway.”

Alicia did so. Kamaria sprawled onto the floor, fingers and face turning a duskier shade of sapphire. Placing a hand behind her neck, Alicia tipped Kamaria’s head backward to fully open her airway. Kneeling at Kamaria’s side, Susan asked, “What happened?”

“She had just taken her meds when she started choking.”

Kamaria gasped. A rubbery, vibrating sound emerged, but no air.

Susan looked into the girl’s mouth and thought she saw something red. She reached in with a finger and swept carefully, concerned she might drive the object deeper into Kamaria’s throat. Something clung to her finger as she removed it, a floppy piece of red balloon.

Kamaria huffed in another explosive breath. This time, the welcome, rushing sound of air went with it. The bluishness receded from her face almost immediately, and her eyes fluttered open. She breathed quickly, deeply, hyperventilating. Susan and Alicia helped her to the couch.

Susan put the piece of balloon into her pocket, then turned her attention to Sharicka.

The little girl met Susan’s gaze steadily, without a hint of guilt or discomfort, a slight smile playing across her lips. The whole incident had clearly amused her.

Susan could not help shivering. This was no accident. Instinctively, she knew she would find no other traces of what had once been Sharicka’s balloon except, perhaps, the string tucked away among the child’s belongings until Sharicka could find another cruel use for it.

By now, a crowd of nurses, aides, and residents had gathered. Kamaria’s face returned to normal, and she managed a hoarse “Thank you.”

Applause followed, from the staff and the other patients. Trying to downplay her role, Susan moved away and applauded Alicia and Kamaria along with the others. Monk’s expression looked pained. Nevaeh rolled her eyes. Sable clapped with the others, but she kept her gaze downcast. Only Kendall and Stony seemed truly happy for the rescue and Alicia’s and Susan’s quick reactions.

Leaving Alicia to explain what had happened, Susan hurried off to visit Monterey. The young teen sat in her bed with her earbuds in, listening to whatever music she had recorded on her Vox. Susan waved from the doorway but got no response. It would do little good to talk to Monterey. The girl could not hear her and would not answer even if she could.

Susan saw the irony in the situation. She would finish quickly and move on to Connor Marchik, trying to reach Kendall’s patient when she could not even reach one of her own. Monterey truly seemed like the ultimate hopeless case, and Susan understood why her doctors wished to resort to desperate measures. She had more difficulty comprehending the motives of the Society for Humanity. Did those protestors truly prefer that the girl live out her remaining decades in a psychiatric institute rather than undergo a process that might give her a chance at a completely normal life? Electroconvulsive therapy had its drawbacks, of course; but how could anything be worse than counting the hours and days till death in utter silence?

Susan thought back to the years when cancer therapy was as much of a crapshoot as refractory mental illness. Then, bone marrow transplant offered the possibility of a cure for otherwise certain death. It had required massive doses of radiation and/or chemotherapy to destroy all of the patient’s fast-growing cells, then an infusion of non-diseased bone marrow, usually from a donor. Patients frequently died of overwhelming infection, bleeding, graft failure, relapse, organ failures, or graft versus host disease. Even when it worked, the patients felt lousy for months, and full recovery often took years. Survival rates varied from disease to disease but averaged about fifty percent, assuming the cancer itself did not recur.

Nevertheless, people with otherwise fatal diseases would choose the procedure, willing to risk immediate death for a possible cure rather than the slower, certain lethality of the initial illness. In contrast, mortality from ECT was exceptionally rare. The worst common complication was memory loss, most often mild. In the extremely unlikely event Monterey became wholly amnestic, it still seemed preferable to the existence she currently suffered.

Susan performed her obligatory greeting. “Good morning, Monterey.” She paused, hoping for some sign the girl had heard her.

But Monterey only stared back, blinking occasionally, her face expressionless.

Susan tried her best. “If you want me to stay and keep bugging you, do nothing. If you want me to leave, wave.”

Monterey kept studying Susan in silence. Then, to Susan’s surprise, the girl raised a hand and moved it feebly. A ghost of a smile touched her features.

Susan froze for an instant. Then, true to her promise, she turned on her heel and left the room. Her heart pounded. Monterey had not spoken; but she had communicated, even if only to send Susan away. When it came to Monterey, Susan would relish even those tiny victories.

Having interacted with her two remaining patients, however superficially, Susan felt free to visit Connor Marchik. She stood outside the room for several moments, taking deep, calming breaths and loosing them slowly. She knew she was entering a lion’s den and promised herself that, whatever he said, she would not take it personally. Having fully prepared herself, she walked into Connor’s room, grumbling loudly. “This sucks. Everything sucks.”

Connor looked up from the palm-pross balanced on his thighs. He had dark, uncombed hair that tousled in every direction, sunken blue eyes, and long bony cheeks. A hint of downy hair fuzzed the area between his nose and upper lip, and a few hairs clung to his chin.

Arms crossed over her chest, Susan glanced in his direction, then snarled, “What are you looking at?”

Connor seemed shell-shocked. Since he had transferred to the PIPU, no one had ever spoken to him that way. Susan supposed they all plastered on fake smiles, trying to sweet-talk him from the depths of his raging depression. Images flashed across the palm-pross, and Susan recognized them as characters in the newest display case in the Manhattan Hasbro Hospital lobby. The grimy stuffed animal on his pillow vaguely resembled one of the main critter characters. He finally managed to speak. “Who the hell are you?” Though hostile, his tone sounded practically neutral compared to her own.

Susan maintained her stance, half-turned away, arms across her chest. “I’m Dr. Susan Calvin, and I wish I were dead.”

Connor growled, “No, you don’t.”

“I do. I’d trade places with you in a second.”

“Bullshit.”

Susan turned fully toward him. “You’ve got it made. Lying around all day doing whatever you want to do, watching whatever you want to watch, until the day you die.”

“Which could be tomorrow.”

“Or two years. Or three years.” Susan turned him a sullen look. “Or maybe some brilliant scientist will discover a cure, and you’ll have the bad luck to live seventy more years.”

“Yeah, right.” Connor returned his attention to the palm-pross. “I’ve been hearing that ‘future cure’ shit for years.” Sarcasm deepened his voice. “Be happy. Nobody knows for sure when it’s his time to go.” He snorted. “Well, I fucking know. I’ve got a few more fucking months at best, and I don’t want to spend them skipping around rainbows with dancing ponies, okay?”

Susan shrugged. “Yeah? Then why go on at all? Why not end it all now?”

She had Connor’s full attention again. “What?”

Susan let her arms drop to her sides. “Your room seemed like the perfect place to commit suicide. I have enough pills to share.” She pulled the Slookies from her pocket. From across the room, they could pass for drugs.

Connor shut the palm-pross. “Hey! You can’t kill yourself here.”

Susan drifted toward him. “Why not? You don’t give a shit about anyone else, so I knew you wouldn’t try to stop me.”

Connor looked distinctly uneasy. Susan hoped she had not overplayed her gambit. “What’s so bad about your life, anyways? I heard you fixed Starling. And Diesel.”

“Yeah. And now everyone expects miracles. I can’t do anything for Monterey . . . or for you.” Susan shook her head angrily. “I can’t stand the pressure anymore. Better to end it all now.” She shook the candies in her hand and raised them to her lips.

“Don’t do it!” Connor shouted.

Susan froze, then slowly turned her head toward him. She wrinkled her brow, as if in confusion. “Why not? Life blows.”

“Yeah, it does,” Connor agreed. “But what if you’re the one who’s supposed to find the cure for me? Or for Monterey? Or, if not for either of us, for someone just as desperate next month?”

“Are you saying what I do or don’t do affects . . . other people?” Susan spoke as if she had come to a great epiphany.

“Of course . . . it . . .” Connor caught on. “You bitch.”

Susan dumped the candy back into her pocket. “That’s Dr. Susan Bitch. Now, don’t you think it’s about time to stop torturing everyone around you just because your life sucks?”

“I’m dying.”

“Get over it. And yourself.” Susan refused to show any sympathy. “We’re all dying at our own speed. You’re neither the oldest nor the youngest person to die. Do you know how many people would pay good money to have a couple years’ warning? Most of us crawl into our deathbeds worrying about trivia, never knowing we won’t wake up in the morning. We leave a million things undone. At least, you can tie up all your loose ends.”

“I’m fifteen,” Connor reminded her. “My ends are all pretty tight.”

Susan chuckled.

“You’re not supposed to laugh at a dying kid.”

“Well, no wonder you’re so spittin’ mad. No one laughs at your jokes.”

Though tempted to continue while she had him listening, Susan knew when she had said enough. She had given Connor something to think about. Lecturing him about how he affected his family, his doctors, and his friends would only form a wedge, losing all the ground she had gained. With teenagers, often the less said, the better. “Dr. Susan Bitch,” she repeated. “And don’t you forget it.” With that, she turned and left the room.