Blood Test by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

hint of a smile.
    “I bet you win a lot.”
    The smile widened. His teeth were straight and white
but the gums surrounding them were swollen and inflamed.
    “And you like to win.”
    “Uh huh. I always win my mom.”
    “How ’bout your dad?”
    He gave a perplexed frown.
    “He doesn’t play checkers.”
    “I see. But if he did, you’d probably win.”
    He digested that for a minute.
    “Yeah, I pro’ly would. He doesn’t know much about
playing games.”
    “Anyone else you play with besides Mom?”
    “Jared—but he moved away.”
    “Anybody besides Jared?”
    “Michael and Kevin.”
    “Are they guys at school?”
    “Yeah. I finished K. Next year I go into one.”
    He was alert and responsive but obviously weak.
Talking to me was taxing and his chest heaved with the effort.
    “How about you and I play a game of checkers?”
    “Okay.”
    “I could play from out here with these gloves, or I
could put on one of those spacesuits and come in the room with you. Which would
you like better?”
    “I dunno.”
    “Well, I’d like to come in the room.” I turned
to Bev. “Could somebody help me suit up? It’s been a long time.”
    “Sure.”
    “I’ll be in there in a minute, Woody.” I smiled at him
and stepped away from the plastic wall. Rhythm-and-blues music blared from the
module next door. I glanced over and caught a glimpse of a pair of long brown
legs dangling over the foot of a bed. A black boy around seventeen was sprawled
atop the covers, staring at the ceiling and moving to the sounds that screamed
from the ghetto blaster on his nightstand, seemingly impervious to the I.V.
needles imbedded in the crooks of both arms.
    “See,” said Bev, speaking up to be heard, “I told you.
A sweetie.”
    “Nice kid,” I agreed. “He seems bright.”
    “The parents describe him as having been very sharp.
The fevers have pretty much knocked him out but he still manages to communicate
very well. The nurses love him—this whole pullout thing is making everyone very
uptight.”
    “I’ll do what I can. Let’s start by getting me in
there.”
    She called for help and a tiny Filipino nurse appeared
bearing a package wrapped in heavy brown paper and marked STERILE.
    “Take off your shoes and stand there,” ordered the
nurse, pintsized but authoritative. She pointed to a spot just outside the red
taped no-entry zone. After washing her hands with Betadyne, she unwrapped a
pair of sterile gloves and slipped them on her hands. Having inspected the
gloves and found them free from flaws, she removed a folded spacesuit from the
brown paper and placed it inside the red border. It took a bit of playing with
the suit—which, in a collapsed state, looked like a heavy paper accordion—but
she found the footholes and had me step inside them. Gingerly, she took hold of
the edges and pulled it up over me, tying the top seam around my neck. Being so
short, she had to stretch to do the job so I bent my knees to make it easier.
    “Thanks,” she giggled. “Now your gloves—don’t touch
anything until they’re on.”
    She worked quickly and soon my hands were sheathed in
surgical plastic, my mouth concealed behind a paper mask. The headpiece—a hood
fashioned of the same heavy paper as the suit attached to a plastic,
see-through visor—was slipped over my face and fastened to the suit with Velcro
strips.
    “How does that feel?”
    “Very stylish.” The suit was oppressively hot and I
knew that within minutes, despite the cool rapid airflow in the unit, I’d be
drenched with sweat.
    “It’s our continental model.” She smiled. “You can go
in now. Half hour maximum time. The clock’s over there. We may be too busy to
remind you, so keep an eye on it and come out when the time’s up.”
    “Will do.” I turned to Bev. “Thanks for your help. Any
idea when the parents will be in?”
    “Vangie, did the Swopes say when they’d be in?”
    The Filipino nurse shook her head. “Usually they’re
here in the