After a moment I turn on my mic again. “Matthew, are you okay to continue?”
Yes.
I check his vitals and everything has made its way back to the appropriate levels. I guess we’re safe to move on.
I bring up the Q&A intro screen, explaining that I will not speak but he should respond to the text on the screen by pushing eitherYesorNoon his keypad.
Yes.
I start the sequence.
WERE YOU FOUND ON A BEACH?
Yes. His hippocampus activates briefly, the same as before.
DO YOU KNOW YOUR NAME?
Matthew pauses for a microsecond, then tapsNo.His hippocampus does not activate although his amygdala flares and his heart rate spikes.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU BEFORE YOU FOUND YOURSELF ON THE BEACH?
Matthew closes his eyes.No. No activation in the hippocampus, only amygdala and dorsolateral. That’s fascinating—self-control again.
I pause, finger poised over the final question in the sequence. His pulse is high but not above recommended levels. I click the next question. There’s no simpler way to find out if we’re dealing with a dangerous man, someone who the military might be concerned about misplacing.
HAVE YOU KILLED?
He looks directly up at the screen, his pupils constricting as if he can see right through the camera to me. He seems to hold my gaze, unflinching and steady. On the fMRI his dorsolateral glows white-hot, overshadowing everything else. There’s that self-control again. The beeping starts once more on the screen below, and I tear my eyes away from his.
His heart rate is way too high: tachycardic.
I hit the emergency stop button on the fMRI machine and jump up to release the control room shield door. I heave the door open and race into the scanning room, slamming my palm into the bed release mechanism on the side of the machine. The hydraulic system kicks in and the bed glides out achingly slowly from the bulk of the fMRI. I see him now, he’s gasping for breath, head still lodged in the head brace, hands fumbling at its clasps. I run to him and swiftly unhook the fastenings.
“Matthew, are you all right? Can you hear me?”
He clutches at his chest now, desperate, deep in the throes of a panic attack. He can’t breathe. My eyes swing to the readout next to him, his blood oxygen is lethally low at fifty. I look around the room but there is no one here to assist me. Damn it. I smash my hand on the emergency call buzzer and grab an fMRI safe oxygen tank, wheeling it quickly to the bed. I push the head brace away, and twisting the tank valve I slide the mask safely over his face, before I kick off my shoes and scramble up behind Matthew on the bed. I pull him back toward me, cradling him, his head and shoulders resting against my chest. It’s not flattering but I’ve got him. I slide one arm under his shoulder and brace him. I need to calm him, to get him to slow his breathing. I need to lower his ludicrously high heart rate. He needs to breathe.
I hold him tight. “Shh, shh, Matthew. It’s okay,” I soothe, but he struggles against me, wheezing and fighting for breath. “It’s okay, Matthew, you just need to calm down, breathe slow. Everything is fine. Just breathe.” He loosens back into me, his breath still snatching noisily in his throat. But at least he’s listening to my voice. “That’s it, Matthew. Good. Now nice and slow. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Good. That’s perfect. Everything is going to be okay, Matthew.” He takes a noisy breath in through his nose, and lets it out audibly through his mouth.
“Good. That’s good. I’m right here. Everything is fine. I promise you.” I feel the weight of him against me, his fear, his trust, his vulnerability.
There wasn’t time to get an fMRI reading on that final question,Have you killed?But, in a way, what just happened might be answer enough.
28
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 10—A VISIT FROM JOE
Matthew is recovering on the ward. It’s Friday and I’m taking the day off, to the extent that a doctor on call can ever really have a day off.
When I open the front door of the lodge, I find that everything is smothered in thick white. There must have been another flurry of snow overnight. The forest branches bend low with sparkling weight, while the garden, bench, and long lane all the way to the road glitter brilliantly in the winter sunlight.
I zip up my down jacket to my chin, pat my pocket to feel for the lump of my hospital pager, and scrunch briskly out across the snow to my car. I’m heading to pick up Joe from the train station.
I texted him late last night and, like the hero that he is, he texted back that he’d drop everything and come first thing. I need someone to talk to, some perspective, just for a day. He can’t stay the night, as Rachel’s working tonight and can’t watch Chloe, but at least I’ll have a few hours’ company.
I drive through a fresh winter wonderland, the radio playing in my car the only sound in the muffled white. After everything bad that happened to me here it’s still impossibly beautiful, this place.
