Of Poseidon

animal hospital?”
    He chuckles. “Because my doctor says I need to keep an eye on mine.” Dr. Milligan taps Emma’s knee. “Okay, now uncross your legs so I can get a good reading.” She does, then holds out her arm. Dr. Milligan shakes his head. “No, my dear, I always get the best reading on your calf. I’ve found that the main artery of the fin divides in two when Galen changes into human form, one in each leg.”
    Again, Emma’s eyes go wide. “You said it doesn’t hurt to change, just like you said it wouldn’t hurt when he stabbed me with that straw,” she says, glowering at Galen. “I’ll just bet it doesn’t hurt,” she grumbles. “Arteries splitting in half.”
    As Galen opens his mouth to answer, Dr. Milligan says, “Huh. That’s strange.”
    “What?” they ask in unison. Emma bites her lip. Galen crosses him arms. Neither of them like the sound of “Huh.”
    The blood pressure cuff releases, and Dr. Milligan stands up. “Your heartbeat isn’t quite as slow as Galen’s. And your blood pressure isn’t as low. Galen, why don’t you hop up on the table and let me check yours again?”
    Without effort he plunks off the counter and onto the table. As the doctor trades the small cuff for a larger one to accommodate his more muscular calf, Emma leans into Galen. “What does that mean?” she whispers.
    He shrugs, trying not to enjoy her scent. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”
    As the cuff squeezes, Galen feels an occasional thud in his leg. The cuff hisses its release and Dr. Milligan stands again. The look on his face is far from comforting.
    “What is it?” Galen says, ready to shake the doctor into a coma for not sharing. “Is something wrong?” At Emma’s sharp intake of breath, Galen grabs her hand, unable to stop himself.
    “Oh, no. I wouldn’t say something is wrong, necessarily. Emma’s heartbeat is definitely slower than any human’s. It’s just not as slow as yours.” Dr. Milligan stalks to a tall rectangular cabinet full of drawers. He pulls out a note pad and begins sifting through the pages. “Ah,” he says, more to himself than his guests. “It seems your heartbeat is faster since last time, my boy. That or I can’t read my own scribble.” He flips the page. “No, I’m sure that’s right. Your pulse was consistently lower for the last ten readings. Interesting.”
    “Which means?” Galen says through clenched teeth.
    “Well, traditionally, Galen, every heart has a finite number of beats until it will one day stop beating. Animals with slower heartbeats live longer. Say, sea turtles, for instance. While they have the same number of beats as any other heart, it takes them longer to reach that number. That’s why sea turtles can live to be well over a hundred years old. A human heart averages about two point five billion heartbeats. At seventy-two beats per minute, that puts the normal human lifespan at eighty years. From the tests I’ve run on you and Rayna, the average Syrena heart only beats nineteen times per minute. So theoretically, it will take you about three hundred years to reach two point five billion heartbeats. But according to this last reading, Galen, you’re at twenty-three beats per minute right now. Something has your heart rate up, my boy.”
    “Three hundred years is about right,” Galen says, ignoring Dr. Milligan’s meaningful glance at Emma. “In fact, some of the Archives are over three hundred and twenty years old.”
    “So, how many beats per minute do I clock?” Emma says.
    Then Galen understands. Emma’s heart beats faster than mine.… She’ll die before I do. Every muscle in his body seems to team up against him and spasm. He can’t stop it from coming. Lurching off the table, he barely makes it to the sink before the vomit explodes everywhere. The drain can’t handle the volume, even with the water running full blast. Of course, the unidentifiable chunks from lunch don’t help either.
    “Don’t worry about it, Galen,” Dr. Milligan whispers, handing him a paper towel. “I’ll take care of that later.”
    Galen nods and pools water from the faucet into his mouth to rinse out the leftovers. Drying his face and hands with the paper towel, he stalks back to the table, but leans against it instead of hoisting himself back up. Just in case he has to make a run for it again.
    “Still sick from the flight?” Emma whispers.
    He nods. “Dr. Milligan, you were saying?”
    The doctor sighs. “Thirty-two