Catabolism - Part Two: Diplopia

Chapter One - Prologue

The storm had made landfall during the night.

A dull roar of rain against the roof, which occasional heavy barrages, had become background noise to the facility. A surge here, a rumble there, and the work went on as usual.

"What do you think?"

The newest ENT had been leaning against the reception desk and staring up the ceiling for the past several seconds.

"Think we might need to evacuate?"

The immunologist did not look up from the file attached to her clipboard but nodded absently. "Mhm," she hummed. "The best course of action will definitely be to have us leave the safety of the building and send us all driving out into a hurricane."

She looked up then, eyeing the young man with what her ex-husband would have labeled a "dick-shriveling" look. But the ENT looked genuinely concerned, and something about it softened her a touch.

"It's just a summer storm," she assured, flipping to another page and skimming the latest results. They were good, but not great. "This place was built to handle them."

The young man was not easily placated. "There have been power outages reported in the area." He reached up a hand to scratch at a patch of stubble along his jaw that had probably taken all week to manifest. Distant coughing arose from the corner of the lobby. "It's possible that we could lose—"

The immunologist lowered the clipboard with a swipe, barely making eye-contact. "That's what the back-up generator is for." She twisted away, having lost her patience.

It was a joke that her grandfather had always loved to make at her expense. Right up until he forgot who she was.

"You could never be a doctor, Kelly. You don't have any patience."

Patience. Patients.

Well, the joke was on him; she had patients, and one had been coughing for an unbroken minute.

"Cameron," she called, looking toward the corner nook that acted as a waiting area. "You okay?"

The little boy had just turned five, small in an under-developed way, but already sporting a fierce independence that always brought a spark of warmth to her frigid, spinster heart. Her ex-husband's words, not hers.

He sat in the adult chair, his miniscule legs dangling over the edge. The backpack that his guardian always insisted the boy keep with him was on his lap, nearly the same size as the boy himself.

Two more coughs into the crook of his dainty elbow and the boy's face emerged, a mop of black hair framing his cherubic, lightly flushed cheeks. "I'm okay."

She was unconvinced, but the seconds passed, and his breathing seemed to stabilize. She chalked it up to the excess moisture in the air, made a mental note to check for any signs of pneumonia.

"Dr. Elliott isn't quite ready with your treatment yet," she explained, glancing down at her watch. The bi-weekly drop-off had happened earlier than usual, undoubtedly due to the storm.

The doll-like feet kicked idly. "That's okay." Then the boy's face lifted. "Can I go see my friend?" There was so much hope in the small, winded voice.

The immunologist frowned, glancing around reception and down the hall. Only core staff had been called in that day, the boy being the only patient. It could not hurt, and besides, it would keep his goldfish attention span happy until they were ready. She caught a glimpse of the ENT's questioning look. He had not been told, likely would never be, and she certainly was not going to explain it to him.

"Go ahead." The boy lit up, as he always did. "But don't get in anyone's way, understand?"

"Uh huh!" The backpack hit the floor.