Grant gave Scott a half-smile, but out of politeness. “You can read the letter beforehand, if you want.” It was a bluff, but he hoped the transparency would indicate that he had nothing to hide. “It’s not really like that—Lucy and I never…she’s just my friend…are you sure I’m not going to die?” He pointed at his arm.
“Yes, I’m sure. Not today. You’re not going to die today. I can’t explain it yet, but I’m confident about that,” Scott walked back over to Grant and ran his finger over Grant’s arm. “Is that tender?”
With a sniff, Grant nodded. “I have the letter on me. It’s in my pocket. Just…in case.”
“You really don’t trust me? To keep my word? You thought today you’d wake up and I’d just inject you and we’re done?” Scott shook his head. “It’s okay. We have time.” Then Scott turned his head and eyed Grant carefully; the look made Grant draw back.
“How much time?” Grant looked down at the table. The idea of months upon months in that small closet was worse than the threat of death. He tapped his fingers against the metal frame. Maybe Lucy’s father was on some sort of strict timeline, but it didn’t feel like that most of the time.
To prove that point, Scott merely shrugged and then leaned over and patted Grant on the back. “I think we have a lot in common, you and I,” Scott said. Then he left Grant alone and went to his workstation, where he messed around with vials and slides under a microscope, mumbling little noises of approval or confusion.
“How so?” Grant asked after a while.
“What? Huh?” Scott asked, spinning around, and then he made a face. “Oh, yes. Just…you’re not a complainer. Not a big fighter. It’s funny…there are two camps, even when you work with animals.”
“Animals?”
“Mice. Monkeys. Even the animals…two camps. Very distinct.” Scott pulled a petri dish off of the shelf and added a solution to it; he then slid some of the dish’s contents onto a slide and stuck it under a microscope. “There are those who are born to fight and those who are born to accept. Line up. Kill me, I won’t fight it, types.”
“That sounds like an indictment,” Grant said. He could hear this father’s voice running like an undercurrent through that faint-praise: You’re weak, Grant. You got to get out there and just jump right in. Take some chances. We’re fighters, you and I, and the Trotters don’t give up, we don’t roll over, we don’t quit.
“Not at all. At least I don’t think so.” Scott didn’t look up. “I do think it’s a trait we share. I’ve never been a big complainer either. And I think I’m happier for it.”
There was nothing he could say as a reply. Grant wasn’t happy. He was resigned. There was a marked difference.
“The cells are like little fortified battalions. I’m confused by it entirely,” Scott said, although he didn’t seem to direct this news to anyone in particular. “And if they aren’t responding to the direct injection…” he trailed off.
Grant’s hand went into his back pocket and he pulled out his letter to Lucy. He had written her name across the envelope—he hated his childish scrawl, the ‘y’ of her name looked like a ‘g’, but maybe she wouldn’t inspect her name too closely. Maybe she would just run her finger over the little image he drew in the corner: A hot air balloon, two stick figures sailing through the air. They were holding hands.
He hadn’t noticed Scott walking back up to him, holding a new set of needles.
“Is that the letter?” Scott asked and he leaned over. “To Lucy?”
Grant nodded. He went to put it back in his pocket, but Scott stuck out his hand.
“I’ll put it in the lab safe. Just to be sure.”
There was a moment of hesitation, but then Grant handed the envelope over. The longer it stayed in his pocket, the harder it was to think about the fact that he would never see Lucy again. Resigned, it was the perfect way to describe how he felt. Scott reiterated every day: There was only one way this could end. Kicking, screaming, yelling, may not even prolong his life, and it may make things harder for Lucy and for her family. He rationalized his lack of fight as martyrdom.
“I promise. I’ll keep it safe and I will give it to her to read when the time comes.” Scott tucked the letter into his lab coat and patted his pocket once. Then he reached for Grant’s arm and Grant obeyed by extending it fully. Scott drew four vials of blood and pulled the needle from his arm—with a sad smile, he shuffled off to the counter.
Grant watched as Scott worked. Organizing. Pulling. Pouring. Sorting. A quiet sort of work, mechanical and automated. Occasionally Scott would mutter something under his breath or make a strange sort of clicking noise, but the work was silent.
“So, what are your requests?” Scott asked after a few minutes.
“What?” Grant’s mind went to last requests, but then he realized Scott must have been back at their beginning conversation. Books. He was back to the books. Scott’s mind often worked in large circles, crawling back to a conversation from hours ago without missing a beat. Grant rarely kept up. “Oh, um, maybe…just some classics.”
“You got it,” Scott replied. He pulled over a rolling chair and sat down. Then he popped up, walked over to a refrigerator in the corner and pulled out some additional glass beakers. “The work is lonely, that’s for sure,” Scott said out of nowhere, and Grant looked around, confused.
“In the lab?”
“I used to have a team.”
“Don’t tell me…” Grant grimaced. “You killed them?”
Scott laughed and pointed a finger in jest at Grant. “Funny,” was all he said, but Grant hadn’t been kidding.
“Here. Let’s try this.” Scott walked over to Grant holding a collection of test tubes. “A virus with the same properties as my virus.”
His virus. “Did you name it?”
“The virus? No. Should I have?”
“Something catchy. Like S1K1.”
“Nice. And here comes the pinch.”
He jabbed the needle in Grant’s other arm.
Grant could see the letter to Lucy sticking out of Scott’s pocket. The hot air balloon drawing visible—and the curl of the y. He regretted handing it over to him. Maybe he should get a new envelope. Write her name with a distinct ‘y’. It was a mistake—he realized that now. It was a mistake writing the letter at all. Maybe he should have demanded to see her one last time.
That should have been his last request.
They wouldn’t have honored it, but at least he could have asked. So then Scott could tell her, “Yes. He asked for you.” Maybe then she would know the truth. Why had he wasted an entire letter without telling her the truth?
His head began to pound.
“I’m getting a headache,” Grant mumbled. His chest felt tight. He took in a deep breath of air and felt nauseated.
“Huh,” was all Scott said and he put his hand against Grant’s forehead. With speed and efficiency he drew some blood, as Grant started to feel clammy and weak.
Salem. His last kiss had been Salem. He closed his eyes. And he thought of Lucy. What she would say if she had known about that kiss?
Salem’s lips touched his and he kissed her back, it was true. But it had always been about Lucy.
“I don’t—” Grant started and then he leaned back, reeling. Jagged lightning flashes danced before his eyes. Blues and yellows—pops of stars in his line of vision. “I need to lie down.”
“I didn’t think it would…it’s from the same family…okay, easy now.” Scott placed his hands behind Grant and assisted him down onto the hospital bed. He whispered to himself and even as Grant slipped into sickness, he could hear the worry in his voice.