The Terminals by Michael F. Stewart Page A

doctor gave you six months. Terminally ill,” I replied.
    â€œYes, six months.” Breath whistled through his nose. “Six months can be as full of grace as sixteen years.”
    â€œCould be less,” I cut in.
    He nearly kicked the bowl off of his bed. “Could be more!”
    If he expected a suicidal colonel to see the glass as half-full, he was mistaken. I reached back into my bag and felt for the smooth gloss of photographs. I fanned them in one hand and plucked out the first; names and notes were written on the backs. I held a picture of Cordell Hayward.
    â€œEleven children.”
    His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
    â€œCordell, twelve years old—loves art and music—wants to be a fireman.”
    I let it drop to the stone floor, revealing Jake Altman.
    â€œJake, eleven years old—particularly good at spelling even though he’s dyslexic, wants to be a writer.”
    Alistair Dexter broke my heart. In the photo, he worked a piano with an intense, very adult concentration. He was engulfed by a tuxedo, and I suspected that the piece he played was powerful.
    â€œAlistair, twelve years old—staged his own play this year in front of church, a monologue about saving the Earth—you can catch it on YouTube.”
    â€œI know what you’re trying to do,” Charlie said, and his color deepened.
    â€œNathanial—prefers Nate, eleven-years-old, he’s a competitive swimmer, father beats him, and Nate takes it out on the water, swimming two hours a day.”
    â€œPlease,” he pointed to the door.
    But I didn’t stop talking even as I moved toward the exit. My voice lifted over his pleas, my tone growing shrill, like a Sunday morning preacher trying to bring a congregation to a feverish pitch; I rattled off the children’s names. When my hand touched the doorknob, he shouted.
    â€œGet out!”
    Then he wilted, the strength leaving him, and he sagged into the rough woolen covers.
    I hated myself. “Hillar McCallum slowly drains the blood of his victims and then tears their eyes out. We’ve never found any of the eyes.”
    â€œGet out,” he whispered.
    â€œMaybe he actually does take their spark, too.” I shrugged. “You’d know better than I.”
    â€œGet out …”
    â€œI’ll be back in an hour,” I replied. “That is two percent of what these children have left.”
    Outside the cell, I leaned heavily against the door. Footfalls echoed down the cloister’s stone corridor. Someone had been listening—the general wouldn’t like that. I ran fingers through my hair, palm grazing my cheek, numb with scar tissue. I pulled my hand quickly back as if burned.
    The weight of my request struck. Secret government agencies, a demand to suicide, tacit confirmation of an afterlife, talking to the dead … it was a lot to swallow. Charlie’s decision couldn’t be easy. The general said everyone had his price, and I wondered what Charlie wanted more than the months of pain he had remaining.
    Dusk streamed through the arched windows that looked out upon a garden. Pebbled paths circled a gnarled tree, and on a branch, a goldfinch sang. I shuffled to rest against the cool sill of a window and leaned into the garden, smelling the rich, humid air.
    â€œAre you prepared to die today?” I asked the bird. It angled its head and hopped further along the branch. I wondered just what I was trying to prove to myself. Music and the flicker of candlelight meandered through the waxen leaves of the tree. Coaxed by the light and the desire for distraction, I walked around the quad and stopped at a twin set of doors leading to the chapel.
    Beneath the vaulted frame, one door was ajar. I pressed my palm against the thick, iron-studded wood and leaned in. A rare dual monastery that shared the chapel if not the cloister, the monks’ and nuns’ chanting echoed without accompaniment, a