Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“I definitely like you more than I like Emery right now,” Annie says.
But what Emery said doesn’t make any sense. “The police don’t have a suspect?”
Annie looks sardonically over at Emery, and a beat of silence passes between the two women. “The police weren’t notified,” Annie tells me, still looking at Emery.
“I don’t understand,” I say, growing frustrated. “Why aren’t the police involved in a hit-and-run? Who found me, then? And I swear to God, if you two have one more silent conversation I’m going to pull these monitors off and get the fuck out of here.”
Not that I would have any clue where to go.
“I did,” Emery says finally. “I found you.”
My eyes narrow, suspicion sparking in the back of my brain. “Where?”
“I was waiting for you at home—” She shakes her head, swallowing back more tears. “Not at home, by our home. At the end of our street. I saw the accident and ran over, and you’d lost so much blood.” The tears spill over her cheeks, and I frown, my head spinning.
“Our home?” I ask, my voice trembling. “What do you mean, ‘our home’?”
“My name is Emery Martín.”
“Martín,” I repeat.
“Yeah,” she says, her smile wobbly. “I’m your wife.”
10 EMERY
It would be easy to get lost in the absolute euphoria of having Luca back—as it is, I’m barely restraining myself from leaping on top of him and never letting go—but we aren’t out of the woods yet. The good news, I guess, is that he doesn’t seem immediately horrified to find out that we’re married. Bad news, however, is that there is zero recollection in his eyes. If anything, he’s looking at me like he thinks we might be up to something nefarious.
Which… fair.
I pull up a chair beside him and try to organize my racing thoughts. I was prepared to come clean about my job, but I realize I need to be careful and not completely overwhelm him. Okay, I think. Baby steps.
“What I’m going to tell you is incredibly confidential,” I begin slowly. “Even bringing you here, I’ve broken about fifty company policies—”
“And probably about a hundred international laws we don’t even know about,” Annie interjects. Luca’s eyes bug out as he looks between us.
“Yes, thank you, Annabella.” Clearing my throat, I continue. “We’re in a medical lab at a company called BioNEX. The technology they’re currently known for is a multimodular radio-magnetic-tomography—”
“Bring it down, Em,” Annie interrupts, turning to Luca. “She gets like this. She cannot not nerd out. Like, she is incapable of speaking like a normal human.”
“Sorry. Right.” I brush the hair out of my eyes. “The technology we’re known for is a scanning device that, in its most simple description, combines all of the imaging technology available to date, such as an MRI, a CT scan, an X-ray—but also includes a cellular-level diagnostic capability.”
Luca frowns. “This is the simple version?”
I wave my hands. “The details aren’t important. What I want you to know is that you’re going to be okay. I’m sure you’re disoriented, sore, frustrated—maybe scared, too. But you’re in good hands here with me and Annie.”
He takes a deep breath. “Okay.”
“The machine you’re in is called the BioVIVE,” I tell him. “It can treat disease, heal and repair injuries, and, um, together with an experimental compound… apparently resurrect.”
At this, my husband goes completely still, brow furrowing as he appears to translate and retranslate what he thinks I mean. I ball my hands in my lap, fighting back the urge to reach out and comfort him, to assure myself that he’s here. That he’s really okay.
Finally, he speaks. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your injuries were severe,” I say. “You suffered a two-inch laceration in your right thigh that nicked your deep femoral artery. CT scans found a Grade 1 pulmonary contusion and a bruised rib. You have various skin abrasions caused by the impact with the road; no brain or spinal injuries were detected, but you’d lost a lot of blood. The damage to your femoral artery alone should have been fatal.”
“Should have been…”
I blink up to the ceiling. Nowhere in all my years of medical training did we cover how to explain to someone that they were actually dead. “Were fatal.”
Luca’s blue eyes—still so bloodshot, so glassy—go wide.
“Still want us to tell you everything?” Annie says from behind me.
He looks at each of us. “I feel like I might regret this, but yes. And no sugarcoating.”
“Okay,” I say on an exhale, not sure this is a good idea. “Technically, you were dead.”
“Be serious.”
“You have no idea how badly I wish this was a joke,” Annie tells him.
“I was dead.”
I nod. “Medically speaking.”
“What does that even mean, ‘medically speaking’?”
“That’s kind of tricky to answer, but clinical death can really be looked at as a medical emergency, and with the right circumstances and the right tools, it’s now possible to intervene.”