“And probably about a hundred international laws we don’t even know about,” Annie interjects. Luca’s eyes bug out as he looks between us.
“Yes, thank you, Annabella.” Clearing my throat, I continue. “We’re in a medical lab at a company called BioNEX. The technology they’re currently known for is a multimodular radio-magnetic-tomography—”
“Bring it down, Em,” Annie interrupts, turning to Luca. “She gets like this. She cannotnotnerd out. Like, she is incapable of speaking like a normal human.”
“Sorry. Right.” I brush the hair out of my eyes. “The technology we’re known for is a scanning device that, in its most simple description,combines all of the imaging technology available to date, such as an MRI, a CT scan, an X-ray—but also includes a cellular-level diagnostic capability.”
Luca frowns. “This is the simple version?”
I wave my hands. “The details aren’t important. What I want you to know is that you’re going to be okay. I’m sure you’re disoriented, sore, frustrated—maybe scared, too. But you’re in good hands here with me and Annie.”
He takes a deep breath. “Okay.”
“The machine you’re in is called the BioVIVE,” I tell him. “It can treat disease, heal and repair injuries, and, um, together with an experimental compound… apparently resurrect.”
At this, my husband goes completely still, brow furrowing as he appears to translate and retranslate what he thinks I mean. I ball my hands in my lap, fighting back the urge to reach out and comfort him, to assure myself that he’s here. That he’s really okay.
Finally, he speaks. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your injuries were severe,” I say. “You suffered a two-inch laceration in your right thigh that nicked your deep femoral artery. CT scans found a Grade 1 pulmonary contusion and a bruised rib. You have various skin abrasions caused by the impact with the road; no brain or spinal injuries were detected, but you’d lost alotof blood. The damage to your femoral artery alone should have been fatal.”
“Should have been…”
I blink up to the ceiling. Nowhere in all my years of medical training did we cover how to explain to someone that they were actually dead. “Werefatal.”
Luca’s blue eyes—still so bloodshot, so glassy—go wide.
“Still want us to tell you everything?” Annie says from behind me.
He looks at each of us. “I feel like I might regret this, but yes. And no sugarcoating.”
“Okay,” I say on an exhale, not sure this is a good idea. “Technically, you were dead.”
“Be serious.”
“You have no idea how badly I wish this was a joke,” Annie tells him.
“I was dead.”
I nod. “Medically speaking.”
“What does that even mean, ‘medically speaking’?”
“That’s kind of tricky to answer, but clinical death can really be looked at as a medical emergency, and with the right circumstances and the right tools, it’s now possible to intervene.”
“You’re saying I was dead. Clinically. As in,deaddead?”
“As a doornail,” Annie says.
“Then you gave me some kind of experimental medicine, and now I’m not.”
I nod again.
Luca looks down at himself as if searching for confirmation. He must find it, because with jerking, ungraceful movements that make my stomach twist anxiously, he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. This would be a lot for a person with a fully functioning memory to take in. Past experiences provide context to the world and help us make informed decisions. If what Luca is saying is true, he has no experience to draw on and no idea how he should or would react to anything.
On instinct, I reach out to comfort him. Startling, he jerks away. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, no. I’m sorry.” It stings, but it’s to be expected. Right now, I’m as much a stranger to him as Annie is.
