Prodigy

didn’t find anything to worry about . . . but we ran across something else.” He turns around, clicks a small device, and points to an illuminated screen on the wall. It’s displaying an image of my brain. I frown at it, unable to make sense of what I’m seeing. The doctor points to a dark splotch near the bottom of the image. “We saw this near your left hippocampus. We think it’s old, probably years old, and has been slowly worsening over time.”
    I puzzle over it for a while, then turn back to the doctor. It still seems trivial to me, especially when Eden is waiting out in the hall. Especially when I’ll be able to see June again. “And? What else?”
    “Have you had any severe headaches? Lately, or within the last few years?”
    Yes. Of course I have. I’ve had headaches ever since the night that the Los Angeles Central Hospital ran tests on me, the night I was supposed to die, when I ran away. I nod.
    He folds his arms. “Our records show that you had been . . . experimented on after you failed your Trial. There were some tests conducted on your brain. You . . . ah”—he coughs, struggling for the right words—“were meant to succumb rather quickly, but you survived. Well, it seems that the effects have finally started catching up to you.” He switches to a low whisper. “Nobody knows about this—not even the Elector. We don’t want the country to be thrown back into a revolutionary state. Initially we thought that we could cure it with a combination of surgery and medication, but when we studied the problem areas closer, we realized that everything is so entwined with healthy matter in your hippocampus that it would be impossible to stabilize the situation without
severely
impairing your cognitive capacity.”
    I swallow hard. “So? What does that mean?”
    The doctor removes his glasses with a sigh. “It means, Day, that you’re dying.”

2007 H OURS.
    T WO DAYS SINCE MY RELEASE.
    O XFORD H IGH- R ISE, L ODO SECTOR, D ENVER.
    72° F INSIDE.
    D AY WAS RELEASED YESTERDAY AT SEVEN A.M. I ’D CALLED him three times since then, each time with no answer. It wasn’t until a couple of hours ago that I finally heard his voice over my earpiece. “Are you free today, June?” I’d shivered at the softness of his voice. “Mind if I stop by? I want to talk to you.”
    “Come on over,” I’d replied. And that was pretty much all we said to each other.
    He’ll be here soon. I’m embarrassed to admit that even though I tried busying myself for the last hour by tidying the apartment and brushing Ollie’s coat, all I can really think about is what Day wants to discuss.
    It’s strange to have a living space that’s my own again, furnished with myriad new and unfamiliar things. Sleek couches, elaborate chandeliers, glass tables, hardwood floors. Luxurious items that I no longer feel entirely comfortable owning. Outside my window, a light spring snow falls. Ollie sleeps beside me on one of the two sofas. After my release from the hospital, soldiers escorted me by jeep here to the Oxford High-Rise—and the first thing I saw when I stepped inside was Ollie, his tail wagging like crazy, his nose pushing eagerly into my hand. They told me the Elector had long ago requested that my dog be sent to Denver and taken care of. Right after Thomas had arrested me. Now they’ve returned him, this small piece of Metias, to me. I wonder what Thomas thinks of all this. Will he just follow protocol as always and bow the next time he sees me, pledging his undying loyalty? Maybe Anden has ordered
his
arrest alongside those of Commander Jameson and Razor. I can’t decide how that would make me feel.
    Yesterday they buried Kaede. They would have given her a cremation and a tiny plain marking on the wall of a funeral tower, but I insisted on something nicer. A real plot. A square foot of her own space. Anden, of course, obliged. If Kaede were still alive, where would she be? Would the Republic have eventually inducted her into their air force? Has Day visited her gravesite yet? Does he blame himself for her death, as
I
blame myself? Is this perhaps why he’s waited so long after his hospital release to contact me?
    What happens now? Where do we go from here?
    2012 hours. Day’s late. I keep my eyes glued to the door, unable to do anything else, afraid I’ll miss him if I blink.
    2015 hours. A soft bell echoes through the apartment. Ollie stirs, perks up his ears, and whines.
He’s here.
I practically leap