Page 2 of Evolved
“I turned sixty-three last year,” she says. “Which places me somewhere firmly in the realm of elder, seasoned by time and experience …”
She goes on, detailing wars we fought and survived Covid and September 11, Pearl Harbor. I listen raptly, jotting down notes for lines that landed especially well, ideas to piggyback on for the next address, until she hits the ending, where she drives home the final most important message Americans should all go to bed with.
“When this is over, we will be united, and we will rejoice in our victory over this latest foetogether.Please rest with confidence that I will use all my considerable experience, my education, and my years of service to the American people to lead you into the future that comes after the plague has been vanquished. And trust me, itwillbe vanquished. We have everything we need to survive this.”
Perfect.
Gran came across confident, compassionate and capable.
I share a victorious nod with Gina, her face hidden behind her protective gear, her fluffy, graying red hair tied back in a bun somewhere under her protective cap. She’s smiling, though; I can tell by her eyes.
If Gran is my whole family, Gina is my only friend.
And the happiness in the lines around her eyes tells me my work here is done.
As Gran finishes the signoff of her speech, I open my email on my tablet.
I checked in less than fifteen minutes ago, and more than a dozen new messages have come through. Speaker of the House, Head of NIH, the Secretary of Health, and the Secretary of Sanitation. I’ll sift through them in detail later, but for now, there’s one I’ve been waiting for.
About a month ago, Gran’s ankles began to swell, and her energy dropped. She had shortness of breath and dizziness, even a few terrifying spells of disorientation where she forgot where she was.
It’s her kidneys—we know that. Her doctors started her on an immediate round of new meds that helped, but with hospitals and labs slowed, it’s taken time to get results back. They promised me it would come today.
And finally, here it is.
I scan the words—and they hit like stones.Renal Failure. Recommended dialysis. Slowing the decline.
Nocureorimminent recovery,orquick surgery.
With proper treatment,the doctor writes,she could still have another decade.
Just one?
I pause just inside the doorway, my whole body going hotand cold by turns, and reread the email. There’s no gray area, no opening to negotiation, manipulation, or compromise. I spend my life working on words, changing their order—but that’s useless here.
Gran is … not just sick, she’ssicksick,organ-failuresick.
Terror closes up my throat.
My eyes burn.
I haven’t cried in public since I was about four years old, and that’s not about to stop now. I pull open the door, the heavy brass handle hard in my hand, and shove my way blindly into the hallway and smash directly into a person.
A big, solid person.
With a big, deep voice.
“Hey,” he says soothingly as my shoulder collides with his arm.
Knox Silva—Agent Silva.
I jerk away and immediately drop my tablet.
It plummets to the red carpets with a loud thud.
“Whoa.” His hands curl around my shoulders to steady me, a flicker of a smile rolling over his features. “You okay?”
Don’t ask how he knows something is wrong. Knox seems to see everything about me, and it never fails to knock me off my axis. He’s always been like that. Ever since we met.