mild concussion. The only worry was the gunshot wound.” She stabbed a finger at the glass. “Look at him. Wired up like a damn switchboard. That doesn’t look mild to me.”
Billie, not the kind to take backtalk from anyone, including her daughter, took a deep breath and held it, a rumbling volcano struggling to hold back its lava. “I…didn’t—” She hammered each word. “—want…you…to…worry.”
“For Christ’s sake, Mother, I’m thirty-seven years old, not some child!”
Before Billie could respond, Simon edged his way between them. “Okay, okay.” The last thing they needed was a mother-daughter war. “Let’s all take a deep breath and—”
“I’m not interested in some feel-good version of the truth,” Kyra interrupted, her voice tight with anger. “I want to see the doctor.”
“And why shouldn’t you?” Billie fired back. She snatched the phone off the table and punched in three numbers. “This is Billie Rynerson. Would y’all ask Dr. Yuan to step in here when he has a moment?”
The door opened almost before she cradled the receiver. “You wished to see me, Mrs. Rynerson?” He spoke in the clear, measured way of someone speaking a second language.
“Please.” Billie motioned him forward.
Yuan squeezed into the tiny room and closed the door. He was a short man, middle-aged, with a round somber face and small alert eyes, his stout body covered neck to knee in a white lab coat. Billie inclined her head toward Kyra. “This here is my daughter, Kyra Rynerson.” Another nod. “And our friend, Simon Leonidovich.”
The doctor bowed his head, a small and dignified acknowledgment. “How may I be of assistance?”
“My daughter,” Billie answered, “would like an unbiased evaluation of her father’s condition.”
“Of course.” The doctor’s thick eyebrows drew together, as if trying to decide where to begin. “You know, of course, that your father sustained two gunshot wounds. One to the—”
“No,” Kyra interrupted, cutting an accusatory glance toward her mother. “I didn’t know.”
The doctor hesitated, realized he had stepped into a combat zone and looked at Billie, clearly hoping for some guidance. After an awkward moment of silence, with no help offered, he cleared his throat and continued. “Yes, that is correct. Two shots. One to the thorax area, missing his heart but puncturing his left lung. And one here.” He raised his right arm, indicating a spot about twelve inches below his armpit. “This wound was the most troublesome, severing the superior mesenteric vein and penetrating both the ascending colon and small intestine. The blood loss was significant.”
Kyra nodded thoughtfully. “And these wounds are life-threatening?”
“Not at the moment,” Yuan answered. “Fortunately, your father is a very strong man.” The doctor spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. “But there was considerable fecal contamination within the abdominal cavity. Infection is always a concern.”
“What about brain damage?” Kyra nodded toward her father and his crown of electrodes. “I assume he went without oxygen for a time.”
“Unfortunately,” Yuan confirmed, “resulting in a coma. But—” He raised a finger in warning. “It is still very early. Very important we not jump to conclusions.”
“But you know something?”
A reluctant frown creased Yuan’s forehead. “The tests are complicated and difficult for a layperson to understand. I would not wish to give the wrong impression.”
“And I appreciate that,” Kyra responded, her tone conciliatory, yet persistent, “but I have a bachelor’s degree in virology and a doctorate in zoology. Though I’m hardly an expert, I do have some understanding of human physiology: enough to know that you’re using a geodesic net to map brainwave activity.” She leaned forward, laying a hand on the man’s forearm, as if they were old colleagues discussing a case. “So, what’s the status, Doc?
Billie, not the kind to take backtalk from anyone, including her daughter, took a deep breath and held it, a rumbling volcano struggling to hold back its lava. “I…didn’t—” She hammered each word. “—want…you…to…worry.”
“For Christ’s sake, Mother, I’m thirty-seven years old, not some child!”
Before Billie could respond, Simon edged his way between them. “Okay, okay.” The last thing they needed was a mother-daughter war. “Let’s all take a deep breath and—”
“I’m not interested in some feel-good version of the truth,” Kyra interrupted, her voice tight with anger. “I want to see the doctor.”
“And why shouldn’t you?” Billie fired back. She snatched the phone off the table and punched in three numbers. “This is Billie Rynerson. Would y’all ask Dr. Yuan to step in here when he has a moment?”
The door opened almost before she cradled the receiver. “You wished to see me, Mrs. Rynerson?” He spoke in the clear, measured way of someone speaking a second language.
“Please.” Billie motioned him forward.
Yuan squeezed into the tiny room and closed the door. He was a short man, middle-aged, with a round somber face and small alert eyes, his stout body covered neck to knee in a white lab coat. Billie inclined her head toward Kyra. “This here is my daughter, Kyra Rynerson.” Another nod. “And our friend, Simon Leonidovich.”
The doctor bowed his head, a small and dignified acknowledgment. “How may I be of assistance?”
“My daughter,” Billie answered, “would like an unbiased evaluation of her father’s condition.”
“Of course.” The doctor’s thick eyebrows drew together, as if trying to decide where to begin. “You know, of course, that your father sustained two gunshot wounds. One to the—”
“No,” Kyra interrupted, cutting an accusatory glance toward her mother. “I didn’t know.”
The doctor hesitated, realized he had stepped into a combat zone and looked at Billie, clearly hoping for some guidance. After an awkward moment of silence, with no help offered, he cleared his throat and continued. “Yes, that is correct. Two shots. One to the thorax area, missing his heart but puncturing his left lung. And one here.” He raised his right arm, indicating a spot about twelve inches below his armpit. “This wound was the most troublesome, severing the superior mesenteric vein and penetrating both the ascending colon and small intestine. The blood loss was significant.”
Kyra nodded thoughtfully. “And these wounds are life-threatening?”
“Not at the moment,” Yuan answered. “Fortunately, your father is a very strong man.” The doctor spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. “But there was considerable fecal contamination within the abdominal cavity. Infection is always a concern.”
“What about brain damage?” Kyra nodded toward her father and his crown of electrodes. “I assume he went without oxygen for a time.”
“Unfortunately,” Yuan confirmed, “resulting in a coma. But—” He raised a finger in warning. “It is still very early. Very important we not jump to conclusions.”
“But you know something?”
A reluctant frown creased Yuan’s forehead. “The tests are complicated and difficult for a layperson to understand. I would not wish to give the wrong impression.”
“And I appreciate that,” Kyra responded, her tone conciliatory, yet persistent, “but I have a bachelor’s degree in virology and a doctorate in zoology. Though I’m hardly an expert, I do have some understanding of human physiology: enough to know that you’re using a geodesic net to map brainwave activity.” She leaned forward, laying a hand on the man’s forearm, as if they were old colleagues discussing a case. “So, what’s the status, Doc?
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