children.
Remington crouched in front of the parents. “Most of his wounds were superficial, but one managed to penetrate the spine. It tore a hole in the dura, the membrane covering the spinal cord, and caused what we call a traumatic herniation.”
Susan held her breath. She did not know enough about neurosurgery to guess the long-term effects. Herniations of the brain nearly always proved fatal. She did not know if there was any connection between spinal cord and brain herniation. Then she remembered Remington had told her Rylan would probably make a full recovery, and her concern slowly dissipated.
Gently, Remington extracted Susan’s palm-pross from the mother’s hand and tapped in a connection to a diagram of the spinal cord. “Right here.” He pointed to the thoracic area of the back. “The dura got torn, which allowed the spinal cord to slip out of its canal. That caused him to have what we call a Brown-Sequard phenomenon, usually caused by damage to one side of the spinal cord. Rylan had weakness on the right side of his body and lost pain and temperature sensation on the left.”
The parents only stared, listening intently. They had become accustomed to bad news when it involved their children.
Remington continued to explain. “In the OR, we were able to restore the herniated spinal cord to its correct position, and we patched the dural defect. He’s in Recovery now, and neurological tests are essentially normal. He still has slight weakness of the muscles on the right, but he did just get out of surgery.” Remington rose, smiling. “We expect a full recovery.”
The parents seemed stunned. “Full?” Lucianne Anson rose, clutching her hands together at the level of her chin. “As in . . . normal?”
Remington’s grin broadened. He looked tired, yet his face still managed to light up in a way that made his features seem perfect to Susan. “As in normal. Exactly how he was before the incident, aside from some scars.” He glanced over at Susan. “At least physically. I think counseling, though, is probably in order.”
The Doctors Anson caught each other and practically danced around the room with glee. “Counseling, yes,” the father boomed. “We’ll all need it.” He hugged Lucianne tighter. “Our son is going to be all right.”
Susan breathed a sigh of relief. The situation was so ugly, it seemed weird to find joy in it. Yet things could have turned out even worse.
The Ansons disengaged. Lucianne lurched over to catch Remington into an embrace. For an instant, he stiffened in surprise, then caught her in his arms.
“Thank you,” she sobbed. “Thank you so much, Doctor.”
Remington glanced at Susan, clearly uncertain how to handle his sudden predicament. “Don’t thank me, ma’am. I only made the diagnosis and assisted the surgery. My attending, Dr. Arlington, is the one who saved your son’s neurological system.”
Elliot Anson gave Remington a careful pat on the back, while his wife still clung. “We’ll thank him, too, when we can. We appreciate what all of you have done for Rylan . . . and for us.”
Remington waited until the mother had released him before speaking again. “The Recovery Room is through the door, to the right, and down the hallway. Do you have any questions about the surgery?”
“Can we see him now?” the father asked.
Remington pointed. “When you get to Recovery, the nurses will take you to him. They should be able to answer all your basic questions, and they can call Dr. Arlington.” He added firmly, “I’m finished for the day.”
“Thank you.” The father walked past them and out the door.
The mother grasped and squeezed Remington’s hand one more time as she passed. “Thank you.”
“Just doing my job,” Remington said to her retreating back.
The instant they disappeared, he caught Susan into an embrace. “So, about that day on the town? You get any sleep?”
“Quite a bit, actually,” Susan said, still eager to spend the rest of the day with Remington. She would understand if he canceled their date again, but she hoped he would not.
“Great!” he said with clear enthusiasm. “I caught a shower in the on-call quarters, but if I smell too much like the OR, I can take another one.”
Susan had her nose pressed against his scrubs. While he did carry the chemical odor of anesthesia and cleansers, they did not bother her. “You smell fine. Just get some street clothes on, and we’re gone. Every extra moment we stay is just one more chance for someone to ask us a question or get us caught up with another patient.”
Remington gave her a look that said everything. “I don’t care if my own grandmother needs a subarachnoid evacuation. Once I’m past those doors, I’m not coming back till tomorrow.”
Susan laughed. “I’m not waiting until we’re outside.” Using one finger, she made a show of muting her Vox. “See you at the main exit in ten minutes.”
“Or less,” Remington promised, dashing off into surgeons’ territory.
Susan went in the opposite direction, determined to let nothing stop her from reaching the front exit unmolested.
Remington took Susan’s hand as they stepped out into sunshine and damp late-morning air. Birds whistled at one another from the branches of trees planted in clumps at regular intervals along the sidewalk. She could still remember when the decision was made to add regular greenery to the city blocks in the hope of straining carbon dioxide, heat, and pollutants from the air. Many of the trees had died; but the city had diligently replanted until the living trees finally outnumbered the lampposts along the streets. Insightful city planners had chosen small, hardy varieties, planted them in groups to shade one another and capture rainfall, and placed them in elevated beds to form a barrier to runoff salts. Porous paving materials helped guide the roots but still supplied them with water, and cracked sidewalks had become a rarity.
Songbirds flitted through these poor excuses for makeshift forest, their nests perched high in the branches and protected from would-be meddlers by wrought-iron fences surrounding the trunks. Gaily painted bat houses hung from the limbs to help keep the insect population in check by night and day; the creatures’ “protected” status made it a crime to harm them or disturb their boxes.
People whisked along the sidewalks, while glide-buses, trams, and occasional cars whooshed past them on the city streets. Whenever she walked in the city, Susan believed she could sense the slight vibrations of the subground u-ways and elevated e-rails, although her father and others insisted these things were undetectable and only someone with an overactive imagination could feel them.
Remington released Susan’s hand and consulted his Vox. He punched a few keys. “If you’re still keen on skating, we can take the fifteen bus, the eight tram, or . . .”
In no hurry, and enjoying the feel of sun and wind, Susan interrupted. “Let’s walk.”
“Walk?” Remington’s brows inched upward. It would take them most of the morning. He shrugged. “Walk, it is. But after a day and night on call, I might not have the energy left to skate once we get there.”
Skating had seemed like a good idea at the time, but a new idea had crept insidiously into Susan’s mind, planted by several conversations and the research project. “That’s all right. I’d kind of like to sightsee, do some window-shopping, and there’s a building not too far from the mall I want to discover.”
“Oh?” Remington took her arm. “Any particular building? Or just your generic hunk of concrete with windows?”
Susan smiled. “I’d like to check out USR, U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men. My dad’s worked there since as long as I can remember. Now I’m researching a product for them, and I realized I’ve never seen it. Not ever.”
Remington accepted that explanation with barely a nod as they continued their walk.
Susan looked at him. “Can you say the same? I mean, have you ever been to the place your dad works?”
“Well, my dad co-owned the supermarket down the block from our house, so I’ve been there a couple” — he paused dramatically — “hundred thousand times. But I’ll bet a lot of people whose parents work in factories and labs have no idea what those places look like.” He added quickly, as if concerned he might have offended her, “Not that I’d mind seeing the USR building. I’ll bet it’s amazing. It ought to have flashing neon signs and animatronic entryways.”
Susan laughed. “More likely it’s a drab, half-hidden, gray nothing of a building. You know what Nate said; they
