Page 35 of Imaginary Numbers

This was biology 101; we’d all learned this stuff when we were kids. Well, maybe not James and Sam. I still couldn’t catch sight of their minds through their telepathy blockers, and so I had to assume they looked interested enough to be considered an appropriate target audience for this little anatomy lesson.

Kevin didn’t notice that I was confused, or maybe he just didn’t care. He put his glasses on as he continued, “We’ve seen Johrlac brains before, although not many of them, and only one that was undamaged. Our current model for their morphology says that we should have found a brain of the same approximate weight and size as a comparable human brain, but with deeper crenulations, creating a greater surface area and allowing for the development of psychic powers such as telepathy.”

“I know you’re trying to tell us something, but this is all making me feel uncomfortably like I’m going to be the next one on the dissection table, so it would be really swell if you could get to the point before I have to leave the room,” I said.

“I’m sorry, Sarah. I know this isn’t easy.”

I laughed unsteadily. “A member of my own species—which is predatory and sort of evil, and that sucks for me—attacked me. Twice. And then she attacked Artie, and now she’s dead, and you’re tiptoeing around actually telling me why that is. So no, this isn’t easy. It’s confusing and it’s scary and I just want to know what’s going on. Please, can you tell me what’s going on?”

Kevin sighed. “We opened her skull to confirm she’d suffered from a brain bleed, and to add her brain to our specimen collection. We get better equipment every year. We may eventually be able to design better anti-telepathy charms by looking at the structure of the Johrlac brain.”

“We did find evidence of the brain bleed,” said Evie. “It was catastrophic in scope. She must have died almost instantly. I don’t believe she would have had any real time to suffer.”

It was difficult to worry too much about whether or not the cuckoo had suffered. She was dead and that was sad, but mostly because her being dead meant I couldn’t track her down and hurt her for what she’d done to Artie. Being near me shouldn’t have been considered enough to make him a target. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair, and I wasn’t okay with it.

“We also found some alarming morphological changes to the brain itself,” said Kevin, sounding suddenly grim. “Most of the crenulations were either shallower than we expected them to be based on earlier specimens, or entirely gone. The tissue was both dehydrated and less stable than it should have been.”

“He means the brain fell apart as soon as we touched it,” said Evie. “It was like brain pudding. No structural integrity. No elasticity. The trauma she suffered was incredible.”

And unnerving. “Do you think it was pathogenic?”

“We’ve never discovered a single disease in this dimension that can infect cuckoos,” said Evie. “But I thought of that, and I started some cultures. We should know more soon.”

Meaning she didn’t think it was a virus. That was good, since I’d been close to the dead cuckoo both before and after she collapsed. It was also bad. It meant we didn’t know anything. “What else could have done this?”

Evie and Kevin exchanged a look, discomfort rolling off them in waves. Artie twitched, picking up on it as clearly as I was.

“I need to know,” I said.

Evie sighed. “When you had your . . . accident . . . you were lucky enough to be near an actual cryptid hospital,” she said.

I nodded slowly. St. Giles’ Hospital was cryptid-owned and cryptid-operated and maintained solely for the care and keeping of people who couldn’t walk into a human emergency room and expect to have any chance of walking out again. It had been the nearest available source of medical care when I’d been hurt. I didn’t remember anything of my time there—not even the names of the doctors who’d helped me—but Mom had sent them an edible arrangement every year since I’d come home.

“St. Giles has an MRI machine,” she continued slowly. “They were able to take some pictures of your brain, both immediately after your injury and when they were getting ready to let Mom take you home. The initial pictures showed . . .” She stopped, glancing at Kevin.

Wearily, I rubbed my left temple and said, “You’re thinking about how you don’t want to tell me this so loudly that you might as well be shouting it. Please just say whatever it is out loud, so everyone will know it, and we can move on to whatever comes next, okay? I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

“The initial pictures showed reduced crenulation,” said Evie. “The later pictures showed increased crenulation. It was like your injury had caused the surface of your brain to contract in preparation for expansion.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

“The crenulations of your brain grew deeper,” said Evie. “According to the doctor who worked on your case, it looks like the changes are permanent. We don’t know what could have caused that sort of morphological change. It’s possible that your disorientation after the incident was partially because your brain had literally reconstructed itself, and it didn’t know how to think yet. It was still relearning what it meant to be a brain.”

I lowered my hand from my temple, staring at her. I couldn’t think of what to say.

On the couch, Sam put up his hand and said, “Wait, do cuckoos not get doctor-patient privilege? Because none of this sounds like stuff you should be telling us.”

“None of this sounds like stuff you should know,” I said. “I didn’t know any of this. Why do you get to know things about me that I don’t know?” The injustice of it burned brighter than I would have thought possible.

“Mom was scared,” said Evie. “I don’t think you understand how terrifying it was when you first went down. We didn’t have another telepath we could ask to look at your actual thoughts, but your vital signs were all over the map. Sometimes you’d have so much brain activity that it overloaded the machines. Other times, you’d have no brain activity at all. If you were human, you would have been declared brain dead several times, because you were. It was like your brain was shutting down by stages. So yes, she talked to me, and maybe she told me some things you’d rather she hadn’t mentioned, but I’m not going to feel bad about that. I refuse to feel bad about that. My sister was dying.”

“Why didn’t she tell me, then? I was the one who was hurt!”

“Because she didn’t want to worry you.”

I turned.

Artie looked at me, fear and concern and quiet resignation coloring his every thought. Guess we only got to do that once, he thought, clearly enough for me to hear it, and said, “I wouldn’t have told you, if I’d known. I was scared, too. I thought . . . I didn’t know any of this, and I wouldn’t have told you, because what if it had been the last straw? What if you’d decided not to try getting better because you heard that from me? I would have kept it a secret until I was dead to make sure it didn’t hurt you.”