Page 25 of The Love Operation

When I gasp and blink, Delenn startles. My return is jarring, even to me.

“Did I check out?”

She nods, her skin going pale, like Tad Cooper conveying emotions through his skin. “Your pupils dilated. Your breathing changed. It was like . . .”

“Like I’d left the room?” I offer. “I think I did. It wasn’t just recall—I reexperienced it. And I noticed more than before. My brain caught things I wasn’t even aware of the first time, like the background sounds of you shuffling papers and clicking your pen. I even saw the mist from the diffuser this time, something I don’t remember paying attention to at first. It’s like the memory’s enhanced every time I access it.”

“Fascinating,” she murmurs, still stunned. Then suddenly: “I need a drink.”

My heart lurches.

“Water,” she clarifies, catching my face. “Just water.”

I nod, relieved. In college, it was painful to watch her fight for herself as she struggled with alcohol abuse. It took her years, but she made it through her recovery program and has been sober ever since.

“Any theories?” I ask, because she’s lost in thought again.

She shakes her head. “Your recall is astounding, but this other thing . . .” She stands abruptly, shaking off her thoughts. “We’ll run the next test tomorrow. No machine. No drugs. I need to know how long this lasts.” She massages her chin. “I also wonder if I should call off the experiment.”

“You can’t.” The words fly off my tongue. “You don’t have a reason to. This isn’t happening to anyone else, and technically, I’m not in the study. What grounds would you have to shut it down?”

“Damn.” She rubs her temple. Neither of us expected this.

“Let’s take it one step at a time,” I say, trying to calm her. “I feel fine. More than fine. Nothing to stop—just things to figure out.”

Her nod is reluctant, but she doesn’t argue.

I stand. I’m a little unsteady on my feet, as if I’ve borrowed someone else’s legs.

“I’ll walk out with you,” she says, and we gather our things.

By the time we reach the parking lot, I feel almost normal again. Still sharper than usual, but no longer electric.

I don’t want that edge to fade.

Delenn wants to drive me. She’s afraid I’ll zone out behind the wheel.

“So far, it only happens when I try to remember something,” I say. “I’ll be fine. I won’t try to recall anything behind the wheel.”

We go back and forth several times until she finally relents.

“Just . . . be careful,” she says. “Keep in touch. We’re in new territory.”

“I’ll call when I get home and again in the morning. Promise.”

She seems satisfied but insists on location sharing, which I remind her we already do.

By the time I get home and check in again, I’m spent. I don’t shower. I barely make it into a T-shirt before collapsing into bed.

When my phone pings, I almost ignore it. But I check—just in case it’s about a patient.

It’s not.

Isaac: Just one outing.

Seeing his name tightens something in me—like I’ve been plugged into an entirely different kind of current.

I set my phone back on the nightstand, flop onto my pillow, and stare at the ceiling.