A quick glance at Charlotte’s YMCA duffel bag confirmed the nurse’s hunch that Charlotte was a fellow American.
“Are you all right?” the nurse said in English with a heavy New England accent.
“Yes.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
“Sorry you had to see that,” she said, motioning with her eyes to the burn unit. “The toughest cases come through these doors. Takes some getting used to.”
“Think he’ll make it?”
The nurse’s head tipped sideways. “We have to believe he will. Sometimes, when you think there’s no hope”—she shrugged and smiled—“you get a surprise.”
The nurse’s eyes went down to the yellow laminated visitor’s pass Charlotte was holding.
“Who are you here to see?”
“Patrick Donovan.”
“Ah,” she said. “He’s one of mine. I thought he had no family.”
“He does now,” Charlotte gently replied.
“Really nice of you to visit. Come, he’s just down the hall. I’ll take you to him.”
Charlotte walked beside the nurse.
“How is he?”
The nurse’s sorrowful gaze turned to her.
“Not so well, I’m afraid. Lots of trauma to the chest. If he makes it through the next few days, he stands a good chance of pulling through. He’s a real fighter.” She flashed an encouraging smile and said, “I have a feeling he’ll surprise us.”
Suddenly, she pulled Charlotte to the wall as a cardiac team came racing around the corner pushing a defibrillator. Another race against time and flesh. She could feel Death grinning.
“Sorry,” the nurse said. “There’s another reason we call them ‘crash carts.’ ”
They continued down the corridor.
“You might not like what you’re going to see,” the nurse apologetically explained. “Since he’s not breathing on his own, we’ve got him on a ventilator. Lots of tubes in his chest and throat. For the time being, we have him under heavy sedation.”
Hearing this, Charlotte got choked up, and tears spilled down her cheeks. “Okay.”
They walked by two more rooms that had clear glass walls. Inside the third, Charlotte spotted Donovan propped up in a bed. With so many tubes taped over his mouth and nose, he was identifiable only by his hairless scalp and drooping eyebrows.
“Here we are.” The nurse stopped outside the door. “You may want to say a prayer for him.” She placed a consoling hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “I truly believe it helps. If you need anything or have questions, my name is Maryanne.”
“I really appreciate everything you’ve done. Thank you, Maryanne.”
The nurse made her way back to the triage station.
For a long moment, Charlotte stood by the door, frozen in place. Finally she made her way to his bedside, pulled a chair close, and sat beside him facing the door. The tears came harder, and when she brushed them away, she stared long and hard at her glistening fingertips, thinking how the healing powers in her DNA had so easily transferred to Cohen’s son. But she kept wondering: would the boy’s genome have completely recoded to resemble her own . . . and Jesus’s? It couldn’t be that simple, or Joshua would’ve had no trouble coming into contact with the Ark.
But how could such a distinction, such a genetic selection, be made? The concept set myriad scientific principles on end. The rabbi’s proposition seemed impossible—that she’d been among the “chosen.” But how could a box filled with stone tablets, a scepter, and bones distinguish her from any other? Then again, those were no ordinary bones, the way they glowed like moon rocks. And that incredible light on the Ark’s lid . . .
The idea that the ancient Egyptians had somehow stumbled upon the secrets of creation and God seemed far-fetched. Even modern genetic study couldn’t come close to unlocking those mysteries. But what if there was some truth to what Cohen had told her? Moses’s exodus. One supreme god somehow embodied in light?
Carefully, she placed her hand on Donovan’s forearm and studied the clear intravenous tubes snaking into his hand.
He felt cold, so cold.
From her bag, she pulled a small syringe one-third filled with her blood and uncapped it. She glanced back through the glass partition to verify that no one was watching. Concealing the syringe in her hand, she pierced the needle through the IV’s injection port. Uttering a silent prayer, she depressed the plunger with steady pressure until the cylinder emptied.
Another anxious glance at the corridor. No one watching.
She withdrew the syringe, capped it, and slipped it back into her purse.
Studying Donovan with hopeful anticipation, she found it hard to imagine what was happening inside him at the genetic level. Recoding of genes? Cells repairing themselves? But one thing was certain: the damage was being undone—dare she think,
