DAVID’S POV
Her handwriting stared back at me. It was sharp, and precise. The pen had dug into the paper in places, leaving impressions visible on subsequent pages.
They didn't look like medical notes, for research. My eyes scanned the pages, heart climbing into my throat again, but this time from growing confusion.
"Lactoferrin + CRISPR activation – rejected."
"Trial #7 – not viable in humans."
"Neurogenesis sequence reversal hypothesis – pending?"
Some entries had red lines slashed across them, decisive and final. Others had stars drawn next to them, like beacons of hope. Only four remained untouched, pristine. Ten trials in total.
What the hell was she working on?
These weren't just late-night studies. This wasn't coursework or casual interest. This was deep. It was beyond curriculum, and beyond theory.
And it was personal. I could feel it in the pressure of her pen, the urgency of her notations.
A door creaked open, the sound cutting through my thoughts.
I looked up, neck snapping with the suddenness of the movement.
Dr. Bennet walked out, pulling off his gloves with slow, deliberate movements. His face was unreadable, carved from stone.
I was on my feet before I realized I'd moved.
"How is she?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stared at the floor, then looked somewhere over my shoulder, eyes focused on the middle distance.
"Call her family," he said, voice flat.
My heart plummeted to the soles of my feet.
"What?" I barely recognized my own voice, thin and reedy with dread.
He didn't repeat himself. Just turned away, already moving on to the next crisis.
"No—wait." I followed him, shoes squeaking against the polished floor. "What do you mean? Is she dying?"
"She's stable now," he said calmly, walking down the hallway as if he hadn't just tilted my entire world on its axis.
"Then why the hell would I call her family?"
He stopped, shoulders stiff. "Because she needs them."
"She has me," I blurted before I could stop myself, the words escaping like prisoners.
He turned, looking at me fully now, eyes narrowed slightly.
"I—I mean," I stammered, heat creeping up my neck, "we're in the same program. I'm just... concerned. That's all."
Bennet stared at me for a long second, seeing too much.
"Is she okay or not?" The question came out as a demand.
Dr. Bennet stopped walking, stared at me in silence for a moment before answering. “Kate needs all the help she can get now. She needs her family, so do as I say.”
“Dr. Bennett, Kate and I were talking when she suddenly slumped. She’s my colleague, don’t I have the right to know what’s wrong with her?” I insisted. I was desperate to know what was happening, what was wrong.
He shook his head. “No, you don’t. Right now, you’re not her colleague. You are a doctor so do your job.”
“How then can I help if I don’t knw what’s…”
"That's for her to decide if she wants to tell you," he cut me short, turning again.
I couldn't take it anymore. "Tell me what?!"
But he was already gone, his office door closing behind him with quiet finality.
I stood there, fists tight at my sides, heart splintering into jagged pieces.
"Damn it!"
I turned and nearly collided with Rita, who stepped back just in time.
"Whoa," she said, holding her clipboard against her chest like a shield. "You look like someone just kicked your ego down three flights of stairs."
"Give me her file." My voice was steady, surprisingly so.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"That's against protocol—"
"Give me the damn file, Rita." Each word fell like a stone.
She scowled, clutching the clipboard tighter. I didn't wait for her to refuse again. I reached forward and snatched it from her grip with one swift movement.
"Hey!"
I ignored her indignant protest, flipping through the pages right there in the hallway, not bothering to find privacy.
Vitals. Baseline assessments. A flagged neurology consult underlined in red.
Then, there it was.
Patient Medical History – Confidential
Diagnosis: Huntington's Disease
I froze.
Everything around me fell silent, as if someone had pressed a mute button on the world.
The letters blurred before my eyes. My lungs seized, refusing to draw breath.
"No... no, no..."
I backed up, my shoulder hitting the wall with a thud I couldn't feel, the file nearly slipping from my suddenly numb fingers.
I read it again, hoping desperately that the words would rearrange themselves into something else, anything else.
But it remained there. It was Huntington's, a terminal, and degenerative ailment, with no cure.