13:57 May 07, 2054 (-5 GMT) São Paulo Chowdhury awoke gradually. He’d taken a journey of weeks, in which he’d been dead or as close to death as a person can come. The cocktail prescribed by his doctors at Neutronics had slowed his body function to undetectable levels, and now they were bringing him back.
It took a while before he once again became cognizant of where he was and what he was doing there. A clock hung on the wall of the dimly lit recovery room. Vague silhouettes flitted in and out of the room, but Chowdhury had no capacity to focus on anything except the clock. Its stubby hour hand. Its long minute hand. Chowdhury tried to concentrate on its movement, but it appeared frozen. He had to look away and look back to gauge the passage of time.
Minutes . . . hours . . . days . . . Chowdhury couldn’t say necessarily how long he stared at the clock as his faculties returned to him.
He heard a voice calling his name.
“Dr. Chowdhury . . .” A light flashed in his eyes, painful, startling. As he flinched, a muscle in the back of his neck spasmed. “. . . it’s Dr. Bakari,” said the voice, which sounded like it was underwater. “You’re in the recovery room. Can you hear me?”
Yes, he thought he said. But no sound came.
She repeated the question.
“Yes,” he said. It came out as a dry whisper.
Gently, she propped up his head and placed a plastic cup of water to his lips. When she tilted the cup forward, he began to choke and sputter. Then his body remembered itself and he swallowed a mouthful of the water. “Well done,” said Dr. Bakari as she wiped up what had dribbled down his chin and onto his chest. With great effort, he could feel himself smile at her. Spent, he shut his eyes.
When he opened them again some time had passed, and the room appeared different. It was no longer dim; it was illuminated under harsh, bright lights. The clock still hung on the wall. He felt refreshed, as if he’d simply woken from a decent night’s sleep. Sitting on a chair at his bedside was Ashni. When he turned toward her and said her name, she startled. “You’re awake,” she said, allowing a little sob of relief to blend with her words. She took his hand and kissed his dry, tissue paper-like skin, near where the doctors had connected an intravenous port. Ashni reached across his bed to press the call button that would summon one of the attending physicians.
Chowdhury stopped her.
“How many days has it been?” he asked.
“It’s been two weeks, Bapu.”
Copyright © 2024 by Elliot Ackerman. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
