larger amount of fuel.
Before Heinmein had gone, he had made it quite clear to Mitts—said it in so many ways; and so many different terms—that what he had administered him was not a cure. That there was no hope of Mitts getting better. And that, now Mitts had been given this injection, he would have another week’s worth of full strength life.
And then, one day, sometime next week, he would drop dead.
Heinmein had clicked his fingers to get across that point.
Mitts recalled looking across the room, at that precise moment, and seeing his father flinch at Heinmein clicking his fingers.
For all he knew, Mitts had flinched too.
Mitts lay on his side, a position he never found comfortable to sleep in. He rubbed at the spot on his spine where Heinmein had given him the injection. He could feel a welt there; a seemingly ever-growing lump. When he placed his fingertips over the form of it, he could feel his heart beating through an obtrusive vein.
He almost thought he could feel the serum—or whatever Heinmein had called it—billowing through his bloodstream.
Heinmein had told Mitts to expect to feel weak for a long while. For perhaps several hours. As the serum took hold, Mitts would feel as if someone had blown air into his lungs.
As if he had been brought back to life.
Right now, though, all Mitts felt was the need to sleep.
He could still sense his father, slumped over on the plastic container in the corner, reading the book by torchlight. His eyes mechanically wandering over the black lines, processing them all—and even Mitts could see this—without so much as a single one entering his consciousness.
When Mitts came around again, he felt an odd prickling sensation, all through his body. As if he had a battalion of sewing needles all attempting to poke themselves out through the surface of his skin. He itched at the welt on his spine, felt that the swelling had diminished a good deal. He unfurled an arm. Reached out for his wristwatch, lying beside his bed.
It’d just gone three a.m.
That would explain the darkness.
Mitts glanced about the room, taking in the shapes. He stared over into the corner, where the plastic container sat, and he waited for his eyes to adapt to the gloom.
Soon, he saw that his father was no longer there, that he had left his book lying, face down, its pages splayed, on the container. The narrow outline of the torch was there too.
Mitts turned his attention back inward, to that prickling sensation.
He itched at all the places on his skin which felt like they needed itching.
But new itches would spring up elsewhere.
No matter how much he scratched.
It might’ve been an hour before Mitts finally felt the sensation leave him. When he no longer felt that prickle frustratingly just below the surface of his skin. He peeled off his blankets, used his bathroom, and then trod about his bedroom, experimenting.
Just as Heinmein had said, the dizziness—the nausea —had gone now, and Mitts could see perfectly straight, albeit only into the darkness.
When Mitts thought about it, he realised that the prickling sensation had retreated, but hadn’t entirely disappeared. It had been replaced by a throbbing. This sense that something, within his blood, was now giving him warmth. It was resonating with a sort of energy , pouring it directly into his skin.
Mitts had the urge to run.
He wanted to burn off some energy.
He felt so alert.
After brushing his fingertips over the welt on his spine, Mitts eased himself out through his bedroom door. Bare-footed, he gazed up and down the corridor—lit with an eerie, imitation-twilight glow.
He picked a direction.
Beat one foot after the next.
He took paces larger than he ever would’ve thought himself capable.
* * *
Mitts returned to his bedroom. He felt the sweat ooze out of his skin. His heart wouldn’t sit still. It continued its merry jig against his ribs. Not content to allow him any rest.
He sniffed at the air.
There . .
Before Heinmein had gone, he had made it quite clear to Mitts—said it in so many ways; and so many different terms—that what he had administered him was not a cure. That there was no hope of Mitts getting better. And that, now Mitts had been given this injection, he would have another week’s worth of full strength life.
And then, one day, sometime next week, he would drop dead.
Heinmein had clicked his fingers to get across that point.
Mitts recalled looking across the room, at that precise moment, and seeing his father flinch at Heinmein clicking his fingers.
For all he knew, Mitts had flinched too.
Mitts lay on his side, a position he never found comfortable to sleep in. He rubbed at the spot on his spine where Heinmein had given him the injection. He could feel a welt there; a seemingly ever-growing lump. When he placed his fingertips over the form of it, he could feel his heart beating through an obtrusive vein.
He almost thought he could feel the serum—or whatever Heinmein had called it—billowing through his bloodstream.
Heinmein had told Mitts to expect to feel weak for a long while. For perhaps several hours. As the serum took hold, Mitts would feel as if someone had blown air into his lungs.
As if he had been brought back to life.
Right now, though, all Mitts felt was the need to sleep.
He could still sense his father, slumped over on the plastic container in the corner, reading the book by torchlight. His eyes mechanically wandering over the black lines, processing them all—and even Mitts could see this—without so much as a single one entering his consciousness.
When Mitts came around again, he felt an odd prickling sensation, all through his body. As if he had a battalion of sewing needles all attempting to poke themselves out through the surface of his skin. He itched at the welt on his spine, felt that the swelling had diminished a good deal. He unfurled an arm. Reached out for his wristwatch, lying beside his bed.
It’d just gone three a.m.
That would explain the darkness.
Mitts glanced about the room, taking in the shapes. He stared over into the corner, where the plastic container sat, and he waited for his eyes to adapt to the gloom.
Soon, he saw that his father was no longer there, that he had left his book lying, face down, its pages splayed, on the container. The narrow outline of the torch was there too.
Mitts turned his attention back inward, to that prickling sensation.
He itched at all the places on his skin which felt like they needed itching.
But new itches would spring up elsewhere.
No matter how much he scratched.
It might’ve been an hour before Mitts finally felt the sensation leave him. When he no longer felt that prickle frustratingly just below the surface of his skin. He peeled off his blankets, used his bathroom, and then trod about his bedroom, experimenting.
Just as Heinmein had said, the dizziness—the nausea —had gone now, and Mitts could see perfectly straight, albeit only into the darkness.
When Mitts thought about it, he realised that the prickling sensation had retreated, but hadn’t entirely disappeared. It had been replaced by a throbbing. This sense that something, within his blood, was now giving him warmth. It was resonating with a sort of energy , pouring it directly into his skin.
Mitts had the urge to run.
He wanted to burn off some energy.
He felt so alert.
After brushing his fingertips over the welt on his spine, Mitts eased himself out through his bedroom door. Bare-footed, he gazed up and down the corridor—lit with an eerie, imitation-twilight glow.
He picked a direction.
Beat one foot after the next.
He took paces larger than he ever would’ve thought himself capable.
* * *
Mitts returned to his bedroom. He felt the sweat ooze out of his skin. His heart wouldn’t sit still. It continued its merry jig against his ribs. Not content to allow him any rest.
He sniffed at the air.
There . .
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