THERE ARE TEN MINUTES BEFORE THE SLEEPERS enter what I’m guessing will be their next NREM cycle. I wonder what they’re going through in their dreams right now.
There’s only one file I haven’t read yet. I flip to subject six, a thirteen-year-old named Antonia Gates. In her photo, she’s wearing a knit hat with earflaps and looks like a boy.
Antonia goes to a charter school in Princeton, where she has already finished all of her high-school-level requirements. It was suggested that she begin university early, but she chose to stay in the same school and do as many AP courses as she could before having to “change environments and integrate into a new social system,” as her school counselor wrote.
Her IQ is 160. Holy crap. That’s up there in the genius tier of the scale. There is a full file of notes from a string of psychiatrists and psychologists, but they are headed with a memo from Dr. Vesper. Note: despite the multitude of differing diagnoses for Antonia, her parents are vehemently against her being referred to as having any particular DSM classification. However, it should be kept in mind that this highly intelligent child does manifest symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder, with obvious physical tics, as well as behaviors normally associated with autism, specifically Asperger’s syndrome. She has suffered from sleep disorders for the last year, and in the past few months her insomnia has become crippling enough to recommend this trial.
Seven . . . now six teenagers. All with their own problems. No, that word seems wrong. Challenges? Conditions?
They each have something that has either happened to them in their life . . . an external force, as far as Catalina and Remi are concerned . . . or, in the cases of Antonia, Brett, and Fergus, something affecting their brains. As for Sinclair, I don’t really understand how that works. I read something recently saying that it was a genetic condition, but as far as the nature versus nurture debate, I’ve heard arguments for both sides.
In any case, all of these kids have something to fight against. They all have the scales tipped against them. All I can hope is that no one else dies like BethAnn did, before the group either snaps out of it on their own or the doctors figure out some way to pull them out.
My thoughts are interrupted by a motion on my monitor. It’s hard to tell from here, but it looks like one of the subjects just moved. I lean closer to the screen, watching carefully.
There it goes again: it’s subject two . . . Fergus. The one whose feedback never went back to normal after the last cycle. His right hand has flown up to his chest. I turn around and see that he has ripped out his IV tube, which is dripping on the floor.
I jump up and start running down the stairs toward him, then, remembering what Zhu said about emergencies, scramble back up to my workstation. I flail around for the card she gave me, find it, and punch her pager number into the telephone. As soon as it registers, I slam the receiver back down and run to Fergus’s side. Leaning in to look at his Tower monitor, I see that his heart rate is rising off the charts.
His eyes fly open. Holding a fist over his heart, he seems to be pulling some invisible object from his chest before his fingers open and his hand drops back down to his side.
I glance at the defibrillator. It is activated and ready to use, but I don’t dare try it myself. This is a real person. A living, breathing human being, not the test dummy I used in ER class. I look toward the door, but there’s no sign of Zhu.
My heart is beating so fast, my rate is probably right up there with Fergus’s. His eyes grow wider, and as he glances around the room in panic, his gaze lands on me. “Help me,” he wheezes.
“Fergus, can you hear me?” I ask.
He nods, and then asks in a choked voice, “Did BethAnn make it?”
Time stops as I realize what his question means. Fergus knows something happened to BethAnn. The subjects are in there together, wherever “there” is. They are in a state of consciousness that doesn’t show up on regular brain-wave monitoring. They are in each other’s dreams.
I snap back into myself. “BethAnn . . . She died.”
Fergus squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s the dreams,” he says. “They’re killing us.”
“You’re here now,” I say. “You’re safe.”
He pauses, thinking, then shakes his head. “No, I can’t leave them there. I can see it . . . the Void. You’re fading and it’s getting clearer. I think . . .” He sighs and lifts his hand to his heart. “I have to go back.”
What? I think, my thoughts racing. Is he hallucinating, or going back into the coma, or . . . dying?
“Listen, Fergus.” I barely knowing what I’m doing, but feel like I have to tell him what happened. “There was an accident during the test, and now the doctors think you’re all in a coma. They’re figuring out how to wake you up. But until they do, you have to be careful. One of you . . .”
His focus seems to fade. Can he hear me? I lean in and whisper into his ear. But before I can finish telling him everything I want to say, Fergus’s eyes fly up to the ceiling and he flatlines.
I look frantically toward the door. No Zhu. I rip open Fergus’s gown, pick up the defibrillator paddles, and place them above and below the heart on the left and right, like we learned in class.
And then I stop.
What am I doing? I’m a premed student, not a doctor.
This boy is dying, a voice says from inside me.
If this doesn’t work and he dies, it could be blamed on me. If I do nothing, I’m blameless.
A life is in the balance.
This could cost me my degree . . . my entry to med school . . . my career.
If you stand by and let him die, you will never forgive yourself.
This could mean ending up back in Detroit.
Better to be safe than sorry.
And then the voice inside me becomes that of my dad’s. My dad, who was always proud of me, no matter what. I hear pride and amusement blend in his low baritone voice. When have you ever taken the safe way?
That is the push I need. “Come on, Fergus,” I say, and standing back, making sure my body isn’t touching his, I press the defibrillator’s shock button.
The charge convulses Fergus’s body, arching it off the bed and back down. I wait, watching his monitor, palms sweaty with nerves as I watch the line continue to travel straight across the screen. No change.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, reapply the paddles, breathe out slowly, and give him a second charge. The brain-numbing steady high note of the flatline continues unchanged.
I breathe out one more time, reminding myself to keep my hands steady before realizing that I am actually completely calm. The fact that I am doing something . . . am able to actually act instead of being a powerless bystander, has sent me into that zone I’ve experienced before when faced with accidents. No matter how gory the compound fracture or the amount of blood pouring from a wound, if I am able to take action, I reach a sort of levelheadedness.
Which is why I am able to follow through, even when my peripheral vision catches Zhu rushing through the door, and I hear her scream, “Jaime! What the hell are you doing? Stop right now!”
I apply the third charge, and as I lift the paddles from his chest, Fergus’s heart starts beating again. Zhu races over and looks down at Fergus, then up at the monitor. She registers the flatline followed by the up-and-down zigzag of his current heartbeat, and turns slowly to face me.
That’s it, I think. I’m out of here. She’s going to have my head.
“Jaime,” Zhu says, her face drawn in wonder, “you just saved that boy’s life.”