But Ms. Barrantes slumps forward, eyes glazed, sweat racing down every part of her face like rain on an umbrella.
The woman mashes a button hidden behind the desk, and a buzz fills the room. Two black-clad men rush in like there’s a suspect to subdue, a woman in a lab coat trailing.
One of the men points to me, then at the wall. “We need you over there now.”
The lab coat woman seems unfazed. “Wanda,” she says to the specialist. “Please, escort Jamal next door.”
But I move toward Ms. Barrantes. “I’m not leaving her.”
Wanda reaches for my arm, but I pull away. “I’m staying.”
The lab coat woman nods. “It’s okay, Wanda.”
One man supports Ms. Barrantes’s head while the other snaps the head off a Q-tip-sized stick, fans it beneath her nose.
The lab coat woman removes a tablet from her pocket, slides her finger across the screen, points an edge toward Ms. B, prompting two rapid beeps.
She tilts the screen my direction: a series of colliding green and blue clusters, like a weather map.
I have no idea what I’m looking at.
And finally, the woman, realizing this, smiles. “She’s fine. Understandably a little anxious.”
On cue, Ms. B’s eyes flit open.
“I fainted,” Ms. B says, rubbing her temples.
“You did.” The lab coat woman smiles, extends her hand. “I’m Dr. Maya Iverson, Ms. Barrantes. And while I certainly wish you didn’t need our services, I’m happy you’ve accepted our offer.”
Ms. B kneads her neck. “I haven’t accepted anything. I’m not certain I even understand the offer.”
Dr. Iverson returns the tablet to her coat pocket. “We want to reunite you with your son, Ms. Barrantes.”
Ms. B laughs. “Reunite us. Just like that, huh? Like we got separated at the mall.”
Dr. Iverson smiles. “You’re a nurse. You know doctors love to gloss over the details. But yes, we’re supremely confident.”
“I’ve heard rumors for years. We all have . . . but you never think something like this is truly possible . . .” Ms. B’s face like she’s just left a dream.
“I appreciate your position. Trust me, I understand how it works, yet when I consider what we’ve done, what we’re doing, I can barely fathom any of it.”
“As a parent . . .” Ms. B grips her mouth, her hand shaking. “As a parent, you think about what’ll happen to them when you die, but . . . not this. You’re not supposed to outlive your child.”
And what do you say to that?
Nothing.
Silence hitting the room hard enough to rattle walls.
So quiet you hear halogen crackling in the overhead lights.
Dr. Iverson’s smile gone. “I know. I know . . . it’s a lot to process, and . . . nothing, no one, can change what’s happened. But if we can soften the blow even just a bit, isn’t that something?”
And it’s not my place to speak, but. “This is real? This isn’t some scam?”
Dr. Iverson’s smile returns. “It’s a hundred percent real.” She meets Ms. B’s gaze. “If you accept our offer, Quincy will live again.”
Ms. B sits up straight, pulls the skin beneath her red eyes taut. “For how long, doctor?”
Dr. Iverson’s brow furrows. “How long?”
“How long until my son would die again?”
Dr. Iverson nods faintly.
“Wait,” I say. “What do you mean, die again?”
Dr. Iverson’s eyes stay on Ms. B. “We won’t know until Quincy’s completed the fifth phase of the reanimation.”
“So we’re talking, what? Five years? Ten years?”
Ms. B wags her head. “No, Jamal. That’s not what they’re offering. Is it, Doctor?”
“We’re offering you the chance to say goodbye to your son.”
“For how long, though?” I press.
The first bubbles of impatience finally break through the surface of the doctor’s face. “As I said, we won’t know until . . .”
I cut her off. “Okay, but what’s the longest you’ve brought any of the others back?”
“We make amazing strides every day. The technology is improving all the time. What we’re accomplishing is nothing short of mirac—”
“Please, answer the question, Doctor,” Ms. B interjects.
Dr. Iverson folds her arms. “What we’ve done in the past is not an indication of . . .”
“Doctor,” Ms. B says firmly.
Dr. Iverson shakes her head. “Nineteen days, seven hours.”
My face drops. “I know this sounds crazy, but I thought, at minimum, we were talking months, but . . . but this is . . .”
“One day, soon, we’ll be able to safely extend the reawakening. But for now . . .”
Ms. B nods. “So, even if it’s successful, and I imagine it’s a big if, Quincy would live for a couple more weeks?”
“The good news is we have reason to believe Quincy will exceed our initial estimate.”
“How much longer?” I ask.
“I’d rather not speculate, but so far the diagnostics point to several more days. Which may not seem like an astronomical difference, but when you’re talking about bringing a person back to life, every minute matters.”
And that’s fair. Why had I been so shocked about the time frame? They were undying a human being. Any amount of time would be amazing.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” I say. “I guess I just heard you could bring Q back and I just assumed it was . . . forever. But obviously, even if it’s just for a few weeks, it’s still . . .”
“No,” Ms. B says, her wobbly voice stretching no to two syllables. “No,” she says again, more firmly. “No,” she repeats.
And it’s like you can feel the fight happening in her brain—inside her heart.
Dr. Iverson shakes her head. “No, what?”
The uncertainty gone from Ms. B’s voice. “My answer is no. We’re going to let Quincy pass in peace.”
Dr. Iverson raps her knuckles atop the desk. “Ms. Barrantes, I don’t think you understand what we’re offering you. This is a once-in-a-lifetime . . .” The doctor looks at me for backup.
“Ms. B, are you sure?” I ask.
She nods. “Many moons ago, my first nursing job was on an oncology unit, and I was terrified to make a mistake. What if I hurt someone? I quadruple-checked everything. Even their lunch orders. But then, a few weeks into the job, I watched a patient who’d been in my care die. There were other options the patient could’ve tried. Another surgery. More chemo. But she declined. And her family was so sad and angry. They took it personally. Why didn’t she want to keep trying? Keep fighting? And I’ll never forget what another nurse told them. ‘Sometimes it’s not can we, but should we?’” Ms. B shakes her head. “No one wants my son back more than me. But this. This feels selfish, bringing him back just so I get to say goodbye. Waking him up just so he can die again.”
But Dr. Iverson isn’t giving up. “It’s like we dropped a dinosaur into your lap, Ms. Barrantes. I get it. It’s a lot. But time is of the essence here. The reanimation window is incredibly narrow, and . . .”