The Proteus Cure by F. Paul Wilson, Tracy L. Carbone Page B

They knew they’d die once the dust blew their way but they just kept on living their lives. They planted gardens and went to school and worked. They refused to lie down and wait for death. Because what kind of life is that?
    “So I bought him flashcards. We did spelling and writing and some math. I wasn’t going to give into death. Not in front of him. I’d go in the men’s room and cry my eyes out, because I knew the end was coming. But I kept making him live like he was going to be around forever.”
    “And he did live,” she said.
    “Yeah. He lived. Tethys stepped in with their miracle. Soon after that, Rose left us. So he’s all I’ve got. I don’t have the big life-altering job you do. I wish I did. I’m just a cable guy. I’ve made my whole life about that kid in there.” He pointed down the hall. “If Coogan’s not really my son, I have nothing.”
    “No, you still have a son. Remember, you’re all he has too. If he used to be a mini-you, then inside he still is. I really wouldn’t worry about your paternity, Paul. I’m sure he’s yours. We’ll run some tests, though. Okay?”
    He held her hand. A bold move, but he meant it as a friendly gesture. Just a friend. He squeezed.
    “Thank you so much. I don’t usually babble on like this, and I hardly know you. Sorry I got all emotional. You must think I’m a wimp.”
    She turned his hand over with her thin, manicured fingers.
    “With hands like these? Nothing wimpy here.” She rubbed his hand with her thumb. “Ready to see him?”
    “You bet.”
    They got up and started walking. She led the way.
    Quite a woman. He hoped, prayed, that she was right about Coogan. The DNA would prove it. He’d just have to keep his fingers crossed.

KAPLAN
    Gerald Kaplan knew he was rip-roaring drunk. He sat on his tan recliner on his tan rug in his stupid neutral-colored living room. Except for the big, flat-screen TV, not one extravagance. Place had no character. Just like him. Mister Invisible. Except he had made the biggest medical discovery of all time! Of
all
time. Wished he hadn’t. It was blowing up in his face. Damn. He stared up at the stucco ceiling to stabilize himself, keep the room still.
    Hardly ever drank, and hadn’t been drunk since college. But tonight … exception. Big-time exception.
    Trouble was, the only booze in the house was scotch. Didn’t like scotch. Tasted medicinal. Kept it around for company. But he’d forced some down tonight. Hell, he’d forced down lots.
    Didn’t help in the way he’d hoped. No surprise about the queasy stomach. Couldn’t walk straight, couldn’t see straight. But he hadn’t been able to pickle his brain enough to blot out the memory of that lady in the examining room this morning, that Tanesha Green.
    Poor woman.
    Still felt the shock of seeing her bizarre pigment changes, hearing of her experimental cancer therapy, and knowing in a frightening and infuriating epiphany what had happened, and what was taking place inside her.
    All because he, Gerald Kaplan, M-freaking-D, Ph-goddamn-D, had developed the stem-cell therapy that had cured her. All by himself. No help from anyone, thank you very much. His own stinkin’ lab. Those were the days. A private lab, employees, a wife … things had been pretty damn good for Jerry Kaplan. Yeah, he’d been Jerry back then. Pulled out all the stops. Big house, a Porsche … he researched so many hours that his wife “had to seek out affection.” He banged down his glass. Fuck her. Seek out affection. Hah!
    “I’ve been living just fine without affection since you left, Loretta!”
    Whoa, he’d made himself dizzy.
    The therapy. He’d found venture capital and then he was even richer. But then the shit hit the fan. Loretta left him, then the disturbing side effects in the KB26 clinical trials. Similar to the side effects Tanesha Green was experiencing. He ran test after test. Conclusion: Yes it cured the incurable but it could be devastating to the human