Page 24 of The Love Operation

“I didn’t hear you.” I shake my head, the spider-leg wires slapping into my face. “It was like . . . I climbed into the memory.”

Delenn backs up, hands threading through her hair. “Wow. Nothing like this happened with anyone else.”

Then her eyes narrow with sharp interest.

“Recall it again,” she says—part challenge, part scientific desperation to reproduce an anomaly.

I’m the anomaly.

At first, it’s like any other memory, until I hit a snag, can’t instantly remember what comes next, and push harder. And just like that, the shift happens again. The world warps. I’m back in the moment, watching myself read the final step of the procedure. It’s recall on steroids—visceral and immersive. As soon as I start reciting again, the room settles back into reality. And when I look at Delenn, she’s gaping. Wonder and fear war in her eyes.

“What?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. The faint hum of the equipment and the rhythmic tick of the wall clock seep into the foreground.

“You got it nearly verbatim,” she says slowly. “But toward the end, you checked out again. Just like before.” Her fingers tighten on her clipboard. “Tell me exactly what happens when you start remembering. Because it looks like two types of recall—one conscious, one . . . something else.”

“But it’s good, right?” I don’t need to wait for her answer. “I know it’s good.”

Her nod is slow, cautious. “It’s remarkable. But I need to understand why these trancelike gaps keep happening.” She gestures vaguely, as if trying to gather nebulous information from the air and piece it together. “Your accuracy is shocking. But the unresponsiveness? That’s not normal.”

I bristle. I know she’s right to question it, but I feel like she should be more excited. This is amazing. This isn’t something animal studies could’ve picked up.

“Maybe it’s a flow state. You said variation among participants was expected.”

“Yeah, but not like this.” Her gaze drifts past me. “And your recall results are off the charts compared to the others.”

She turns off the current. The hum of the machine cuts out, leaving behind only my elevated pulse and the faint buzz in my skull, like the vibration stopped but my body hasn’t gotten the memo.

“Let’s remove everything,” she says, more decisive now. “I want to test you without stimulation.”

She peels off the electrodes and wipes the gel from my head. The cool air against my scalp makes me shiver, and my body feels slightly deflated, like coming down from a high. But my mind maintains clarity.

And it’s beautiful.

Delenn scans me, her tone professional when she says, “We’ll test recall now and again in twenty-four hours. If it holds up, we’ll reassess. But those unresponsive moments”—her jaw clenches—“they freak me out.”

She’s trying to stay detached, be the unfazed principal investigator of this trial, but I can tell she’s rattled. I appreciate her concern, but she didn’t experience what I just did.

I glance at the machine, like it’s a ride I want to go on again.

Delenn flips to a fresh page on her clipboard, then studies my face like she’s cataloging every microexpression, every shift in my breathing, as if these things will give her the answers she’s looking for.

“Walk me through the Chiari procedure. From the top.”

I close my eyes and recount the technique again—without electricity.

It’s effortless. The information sits at the edge of my consciousness, waiting to be accessed. I don’t have to think. I just know.

When I finish, she stares, her fingers tightening around her pen. “Holy shit.”

A thrill runs through me. “Verbatim?”

She nods. “Once again, nearly perfect. Better than last time, even. And you didn’t check out this time. Maybe it only happens with the current.” She drums her fingers across her mouth. “Try again, but remember it like you did before.”

It takes some effort and concentration, but before long, the memory rises, lifting me and placing me back in the past.

The words are back on the screen. Delenn paces. The vapor from the diffuser curls in the air. I hear the soft shuffle of paper, the low hum of the desk lamp, and the rhythmic click of her pen as her thumb presses it up and down. Even the scent is sharper, like I’m registering every particle of oil suspended in the air. Once again, not just remembering, but reliving.