“Paperwork?”

  He nods, clicks and sets down a black G.I. ballpoint. Even the pen looks out of time.

  “Paperw . . . ? You people are shameless, man. This is pertaining to what, exactly?”

  “Pertaining to the return of government property. And liability, any damages associated with—”

  “Get the fuck out of here. Just get the fuck out, ya heard?”

  Kavan flinches. Tosses a furtive look at the white coat. Leans forward. “Major, I am not unsympathetic to your . . . confusion here. You’ve had a very complex, protracted ordeal. I’m not able to discuss certain aspects of the . . . well, your situation, but I’m authorized to make clear anything relevant to the execution of this form.”

  Glance at the papers, my head tom-tomming, photosensitive. Blink, the words swim and slowly drift into place . . . read it partial: NATIONAL INSTITUTE OF BIOMEDICAL ENGINEERING—NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT.

  “I read this more like a gag order, Kavan, or whoever you are.”

  He tugs on his ear, shifts toward the figure near the exit. “Can you give us a moment? It’s perfectly all right, we just need a moment . . . Thank you.” As the figure withdraws, Kavan shifts back to me.

  I’m thinking about ways I might kill him, but I don’t seem to be able to move.

  “You’re immobilized. Temporarily.” He gives a reassuring look. “For your own safety, really.”

  My neck clenches immediately. “Where’s my fucking drugs?”

  Kavan gives me an indecipherable look, then leans back and locates a bottle of my pills, this and a paper cup. “These pills, I should say . . . well. Here.”

  I’m a baby bird. He pops one in my mouth, follows that up with some water, which helps a bit with the sand . . . the man saying, “After your deployment, you agreed to a clinical trial. I don’t suppose . . .”

  I blank him. But yeah, I know where this is headed.

  “No, fine. We developed the program for diplomatic purposes, primarily for language aptitude. But as these things go, its potential military applications overwhelmed everything else.”

  Say nothing. I watch his eyes behind his spectacles, reckon I’d gouge ’em out with my thumbs given the chance.

  He indicates the back of his neck with a folder. “I’m referring of course to the subcutaneous biotech unit. You were equipped with this in order to provide various enhancements, and behavioral assistance, guidance.”

  “As in remote control. Just tell it like it is.”

  Kavan shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. “No. It doesn’t function in exactly that way. No. But . . .” The doctor watches the hallway for a bit. An MP passes. Kavan turns to me with lowered voice and raised intensity. “This conversation . . . this conversation is not happening. It’s a tremendous risk for me . . .” He trails off.

  Look askance at the guy for a spell, the intensity of his mug. I nod.

  “It was determined,” he goes on, “that elements within the government were intent on engaging in domestic terrorist activity.”

  “Oh, you don’t say. I’m assuming that’d include what happened here in town.”

  “I won’t confirm that, nor will I deny it. One of the military-contracting groups involved was an association with whom you were already a ranking officer.”

  I’ve heard enough. My head . . . “You can just hold it right there, hoss.”

  “The tech was functioning perfectly with respect to language comprehension, motor skills, etc. There were side effects—”

  “Kavan, I’m not fucking playing, I’m not trying to hear this.” But no, I can’t move.

  “It’s important you know. Actually, part of the contract. Consider this your debrief. As I say, the mechanism was in place and fully functional, until we engaged the basal ganglia—”

  “Stop.” I’m starting to overbreathe.

  And the man keeps rolling it out: “Suffice to say, there was an unforeseen outcome. Some disengagement. The results couldn’t have been predicted. Rather than continue with your . . . tasks, you withdrew, and the larger event took place regardless. In retrospect . . .”

  Sand has all but filled my nasal passages. I’m struggling to pull air. Kavan seems to be thinking aloud, talking to himself. I’m just another object in the room.

  “. . . the problem wasn’t the mechanism, but has something to do with overloading brain function. In other words, material and information you were not receiving directly from the unit was lost.”

  “Lost.”

  The doctor seems to become aware of me once more. “I want it to be clear that I am sympathetic—”

  “Yeah, you’ve said that twice now, I feel the love flow so deep and wide . . .”

  He’s rifling through his briefcase again. “You were not coerced in any way to take part in this project. I have your agreement here, if you’d like you can review—”

  “No, thank you. Please.”

  “So as I was saying, when it came time to engage higher functions of your unit, there was significant failure of the device. I’m afraid it had adverse effects on your system, which is of course regrettable. I will say just as a matter of legality, you were made aware of the risks in advance.”

  “The risks . . .”

  Kavan appears agitated. “I am being this specific only because I feel some responsibility. Your memory loss notwithstanding, you and I spent a considerable amount of time together.”

  I blink at him, can’t really come up with a response.

  He sighs. “As far as we can ascertain, the malfunction occurred as you were in midoperation, at the public library—”

  “The library.” I’m just echoing him, almost dreamy.

  “Yes, apparently this was one of your paramilitary group’s many targets throughout the area. And if what followed is any indication, you appear to have created an intimate attachment to this particular place, which I would associate with the unit error.”

  “What do you mean, unit? You mean me, or the thing in my neck? Or you reckon there’s no difference?”

  Kavan chuckles, but his eyes float to the exit. “This is all speculative, as I would have to . . . get in there and have a look to come up with more concrete answers.”

  “Get in there . . .”

  Kavan taps the form he’s placed at my bedside. “The government is at this point recalling its property.”

  “And I don’t follow you.”

  “To be more specific, we want the implant back.”

  I look at the paper. Huh. “You stuck the thing in, and now you’re gonna pull it out. Just like that. Is that it?”

  Kavan nods. “Baldly put, but yes.”

  “What if I don’t sign this fucking thing here?”

  Kavan smiles sadly. “As you wish. It would be cleaner, but . . . as you wish.”

  “Player, please. What are you gonna do with that there paper, should I sign the shit?”

  He seems to think about this, then laughs. “You’re quite right. I would put the documents in my briefcase and take them with me, but honestly, there’s no one to give them to. The department that handled such things . . . well, I never took you for a fool, major.”

  “So what’s the point?”

  “Habit. I’m a stickler. The procedure happens regardless.”

  “A’ight, so there it is. You gonna patch it up, replace the shit?” I’m slurring heavily, which don’t bode well.

  He shakes his head. “This particular experiment has run its course. Frankly, I can’t offer you any more insight.”

  “Run its course . . .”

  Kavan seems agitated. “Don’t you understand, sir, our intention was to halt this tragedy here? As I’ve said. We were aware of your group’s activity, and so we did what we could to . . . well, in your case, we were successful to a degree, correct? Your mission was interrupted. In some small way, we saved—”

  “Whole lot of other shit in my brain got interrupted, as you say—”

  “Listen here. I am out of this business. Shortly after our work together, I moved into genomic obstetrics, another field altogether. Now, if you’d just sign, we’re nearly out of time . . .”

  Genomic obstetrics. As I try to translate that, the room is expanding, periphery dimming yet more. “Fuck you, Kavan. Fuck all y’all. Wreck my head and toss me out.”

  “Major. I’m sorry to say, to use your terminology, your ‘head’ was not particularly solvent, this was well before we even made contact. We extended your lifespan by a good margin, to speak frankly. Listen, there’s much more . . .” Kavan glances at the doorway, his image leaving trails of color. “The situation has evolved. And the group I work for now, they . . .”

  I’m fading, still focused on my anger. Hear myself say, “Well then, I should thank you, ’sat what you’re telling me? Don’t do me no favors next time. Fuck all y’all.”

  He looks distressed. “Listen to me. I understand your feelings. But right now, there are pressing matters, very fluid. There are things you must know, divisions now within . . .”

  And all at once I make a connection. Genomic obstetrics . . . “Where’s the Saudis? Where’s the girl?”

  Others have entered the room and a flurry of shit commences.

  “. . . there’s so much more.” I think Kavan says it, though it’s barely a whisper. “Let’s get him prepped,” he now speaks clearly, a thousand miles off.

  Then tight on the man, I can see his pores, there’s his glasses, the Old Spice. “We used to be close, you and me. Believe it or not.”

  “Where’s the girl?” I’m saying . . . but I drift elsewhere . . . I want to tell him to go fuck himself, yet again, this preternatural stranger, and I want him to hear me—

  My tongue doesn’t cooperate in time to beat the swift spiral to black.

  _________________

  Awake.

  In the midst of it I’m suddenly cognizant of my body, of pressure at the nape of my neck, a firm tug. And then another.

  I’m facing the waxy floor, suspended about a meter in the air . . . my mug stuffed through a hole in the table like I’m at a spa. The paper lining surrounding my lips drenched with spit. Speckles of iodine, brown blood embossing the tiles below me. If I look left I can see a pair of feet in green surgical shoe covers.

  The suggestion of presences, machines, emitting sounds, murmurs, all of it untranslatable, and I realize with a vertigo-inducing smack that I cannot comprehend language. Any language. All of it lost to me.

  There is a final bit of pressure and something is disengaged from the top of my spine, and with it comes a shockingly intense sense of loss, despair. But I find I can speak, saying, “I’m awake. I’m awake.”

  Although as soon as it’s out there, it’s no longer true.

  _________________

  Awake.

  A blurry female figure is seated on a high metal stool nearby. Lab coat over brownish-green scrubs, white chick. Skinny, eyeglasses.

  Pulling focus. More than a passing resemblance to a young Rita Hayworth.

  I gotta be dead. All right then, I’ll roll with it.

  The room has taken on qualities of the 1940s. My vision goes black-and-white, though I know her hair to be a deep, delicious red . . . like Rita Hayworth, in: “Gilda,” I croak.

  She starts. She’s got a slightly lazy eye, honey saying, “I’m sorry?” Some kind of accent . . . can’t place it.

  “Rita?” Having a tough time focusing.

  Blanks me. She clicks her ballpoint pen.

  “Were you expecting a Rita, or a Brenda?” She says it slowly, making a note on a legal pad.

  “Gilda. Na, you know, the redhead thing, I’m referencing a freakin classic . . . never mind. I’ma call you Gilda, though.”

  “Is that your wife’s name?”

  This gives me a hefty jolt. Now I’m awake. “What the fuck do you know about my wife?”

  There’s a pause. I hear helicopters.

  “Well, we’ve just been discussing your wife for the last ten, fifteen minutes. ”

  “Bullshit,” I say, scanning the area around her head. “Straight. Up. Bull. Shit. My wife’s been . . . been gone for . . . na, miss, I don’t have a wife, full stop.”

  Glenda gives a long sideways look, then sighs.

  “Where’s Kavan?”

  I am ignored. She returns to her papers. “So I see the prosthetic metacarpal in the hand . . . the patella in the leg . . . and we went ahead and shored up the cheekbone fracture, as it was looking like it could involve the eye.”

  Bob my skull. “Huh, yeah. All that. Thanks are in order then, right?”

  “Otherwise . . .”

  I smack my gums. “Where’s my teeth at.”

  Girl glances with distaste at a table near my bedside. There’s my gold mouthpiece bling-a-ding-ding, looking very much out of place.

  “Can I put ’em in?”

  She nods, looking vaguely nauseous. I do it. Then: indicates a bottle of pills with a pen. My pills. “These, uh . . .”

  Blink. She blinks back. Moves paper around in a big file.

  “This is the only medication you’re on, currently?”

  “Yeah. Which hospital—”

  “You’re perfectly safe.”

  “Sure I am, sugar knees, but which hospital—”

  “How long have you been taking these, the pills, exclusively?”

  I swallow. This here is a bunch of nonsense. “Exclusive like how? Where’s Kavan?”

  She ignores this. “As opposed to other medication.”

  Say what? Shrug. “Fuck, I don’t know. What other medication you talking about? Been taking those guys upward of two years, more probably. If that’s my real chart, you’ll know why.”

  Tight smile. “Who wrote the initial prescription?”

  Getting defensive cause I truly do not recall. I indicate the fat file she balances on her knee. “Gotta be scribbled in there somewhere, right? Probably one of you people. You folks like to write shit down. Gotta tell you now, I’ve got more pressing business to—”

  “I ask because these are the generic placebo we used to distribute in clinical trials prior to—”

  “Please. Those are my fucking pills, hon. I’d be—”

  “Sir, these are generic placebo.”

  “Just come with it, you’re saying what, now?”

  Exhales and touches her glasses. “These particular pills wouldn’t be any more helpful than aspirin. For managing the HIV virus. I assume you know . . .”

  Oh, I get it, she’s confused. Phew. Bitch had me nervous. Say, “No, sugar, wrong number. Next room over or something. Y’all must’ve gotten the charts mixed up here. My shit is a congenital heart thing, not—”

  “Sir . . .”

  “Listen to me talking, now.” Jab a finger at the bottle. “This here is heart medication, I’ve been on these motherfuckers nonstop for an age, and trust me, I go through all types of fiery freaking hoops to make pos I got a supply flow.”

  She’s scratching at that yellow pad.

  “Hey, I know when something is working, cause on those occasions when I couldn’t keep with my dosage schedule for whatever reason, it got unpleasant in a hurry. Get the shakes, go all woozy and shit. Think I know my own body.” That bullshit proclamation hovers in the air, stinking.

  She’s still making notes. Exhales again and raises her index finger to readjust her glasses.

  Sense an awful tightening in my gut. I repeat, to her, to the room, to myself, “That there is my heart medication.” Again, the words just kind of hang there uncomfortably, and I wanna swat them away, cause fact is, I’m not . . .

  “Okay,” she says eventually. Looks at her watch. “I’m simply basing this on the information I have in front of me. That’s all I’m doing.”

  “That’s right, and you have been misinformed. It’s not a problem.”

  “Your chart . . .”

  Make a face. “We both know that could be anybody’s fucking paper. Where’d that shit come from anyhow? I need to speak to Kavan, this is some—”

  Talking over me, saying, “Your Walter Reed chart indicates you testing positive for hep C and HIV in, let me look here . . . as early as fourteen years back. Testing positive again in May of that year. And again in . . .”

  I’m laughing cause this is some who’s-on-first kinda routine. Tip my chin at the blue folder. “Doc. I’m not new to this machine, you see what I’m saying? Somebody told you wrong. I’m not that guy. Let’s get Kavan in here, he’ll tell you—”

  “So I’m going to be putting you back on your Nortriptyline, and provided we just keep you monitored, I think there’s a good chance that we can reverse . . .”

  I’m working at the tape over my IV on my left hand. Don’t like what’s being said.

  “No, see. Done with this here.”

  “Sir, I’m not discharging you.”

  Get that pesky tape free. “No, that’s right, I’m discharging me, know what I’m saying?” Rip out the IV, clasp my palm over the slight blood flow. Looking around the joint for my shit. Done with this. Everybody trying to fuck with my mind . . .

  “All right,” she says. “Calling security. Okay?”

  Swing my legs over the side, Dr. Gilda backing up. My “papers” go tumbling and she makes an instinctive grab for them, which is where she fucks up, cause I’m easily across the floor, twisting her elbow up and over, whoops, and the doctor is kneeling on the linoleum, the girl trying to keep it reasonable, lowering her voice, back to me, talking to the door, saying, “It’s not a death sentence, you know that . . . but . . . sir, you’re hurting me . . . continue to leave your condition untreated, over a number of years there’s a cumulative—”

  With my free hand I pull a rubber tourniquet over her head.

  “Sir? Don’t do this,” she says, but she’s not struggling particularly. Eyes on my bleeding hand.

  Snatch a roll of gauze and jam it in her mouth, lock it in there with the big rubber band.

  “I apologize, doctor. Be out your way momentarily.” Shaking. Shaky. Because . . .

  Flip her, tape up her hands and feet. Roll her back to face me, saying: “Me, I don’t shoot the messenger, and I reckon that’s all you are. Where is my shit?”

  She rotates her eyes to my leakage once more, then whips her gaze around to a cabinet.