Scorpion Christian Cantrell (free ebook reader for ipad TXT) 📖

wanted his fries. Why was that so hard to understand?) And how they were sometimes impatient with Molly because they were both working full-time and commuting and trying to pick her up from daycare before six-thirty so they wouldn’t get charged extra, and trying to keep the house from falling apart, and if not exactly clean at least not a biohazard, and how they occasionally screamed at her when she spilled her milk, or had an accident, or cut through the backyard and tracked mud into the kitchen, or left something sticky on the arm of the couch, and how a few times they swore at her and made her cry instead of picking her up and hugging her and rocking her and breathing in that smell she had and tickling her and listening to that laugh and making every single second of her short life the absolute best it could have possibly been.

Most people have heard the term “dead on arrival.” Sometimes it’s called “dead in the field” or “brought in dead.” It refers to a patient being clinically deceased at the time first responders arrive at the scene. Quinn learned that even when someone is DOA, they are still taken to the hospital. And that once CPR is initiated, it must be continued until a physician officially pronounces the patient dead. It doesn’t matter how hopeless it is. It doesn’t matter how cold, or how colorless, or how motionless the body. You still have to watch it all happen from the back of the ambulance—look on as if having left your body while all those needles go in, smell the fumes from all the chemicals, hear all the codes being called and wonder what they mean. Try to answer all the questions while also trying to make yourself wake up because this can’t be real. And then when you get to the hospital, there’s a point at which a new crew takes over and they stop you and you watch the limp little body that is your baby jostle as they run with the gurney and turn a corner and then are gone. It doesn’t matter how many people followed you or met you there. You are alone while you wait for the doctor to come back out, and even though you know that she will not be smiling as she turns the corner, and she will not be overcome by the emotion of being able to give another mother the greatest gift it is possible to give, you still have to stand there and wait and watch down the hall, and worst of all, you still have to hope. And then it happens, and your legs give out, and the people around you are holding you up, and now your mind has to grasp all the things you will never make up for, and all the things you can never take back.

—

“How are you, kid?” James asks once he is fully resolved. Quinn knows she should hate it when he calls her “kid”—that, according to feminist scripture, it should be degrading and demeaning and disempowering—but despite herself, she’s always liked it. His voice is deep, and it emanates from the speakers beside all four diodes, so he sounds a little bit like God dropping in for a quick pre-op visit. “You know, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble just to see me.”

“Very funny, Clay,” Quinn says. “Thank you for coming. Or whatever this is.”

“I wish I could be there in person,” James says. Mounted at the foot of the bed is a spherical camera that provides James with a panoramic view of Quinn’s hospital room. “But you know, I have this job that requires constant exotic international travel. You wouldn’t understand.”

“How’s Paris?”

“Shitty weather.”

“Any time for sightseeing?”

“Only if you count the hotel and the rendezvous point.”

“Rendezvous point. How very French of you. Are you meeting your contact in front of the Mona Lisa, or at the top of the Eiffel Tower? Perhaps on a bridge over the Seine?”

“Can anyone hear us?”

“Nope. Guaranteed pre- and post-op privacy.”

“It’s a hackerspace we rented in a converted train depot. It’s called Station F. People say it’s the Silicon Valley of France. Extremely modern. Basically, the complete opposite of what you think of when you think of Paris.”

“That’s too bad,” Quinn says. “I was picturing poison needles concealed in the tips of baguettes and assassins disguised as mimes.”

“More like swarms of microdrones and packs of creepy humanoid androids roaming the streets. They even ride the metro.”

“Are they programmed to be rude to you if you speak to them in English?”

“I haven’t tried that yet. I’ll let you know.”

There’s a quick triplet of single-knuckled knocks at Quinn’s door, which then cracks just enough to admit the dark beaming face of Nurse Destine. His thick twists with gold frosted tips and magnificent effervescent grin make him a warm and bracing pre-op companion.

“Hey, girl,” he croons. Although he is clearly in a hurry, his demeanor still manages to convey calm. “Just wanted to let you know—” He stops when he sees that Quinn is not alone, but rather than sheepishly retreating, he is drawn the rest of the way into the room. “And who is this, Ms. Mitchell?”

“Destine, this is James. James, this is my nurse, and my new friend, Destine.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Destine says. He is not particularly subtle with his full-body appraisal.

“Likewise,” James replies.

Destine’s arms cross and his weight shifts. He looks at Quinn as though someone has some explaining to do. “And James is…”

There’s no other way to put it: “Well, James is my ex.”

“Ex what? Ex-boyfriend? Ex–friend with benefits? Ex–bowling partner?”

“Husband.”

“I see,” Destine replies. The skepticism in his tone says that he knows a thing or two about exes. “Well, I might as well check your drip while I’m here.”

James Claiborne’s composition momentarily becomes exactly 25 percent less dense as Destine intersects one of the diode’s emissions. The nurse winces as he crosses its path, as