What Happened to Tom (the beginning)

One day he was living his life. He was a bright, young thing, one of many, with a condo in the city.

And the next day, he woke up—in a bed that wasn’t his own. Feeling…heavy. As if gravity had not just doubled, but tripled. And groggy. Not hung over exactly. It was more like a drugged fog. But that didn’t make sense….

When he came to the second time, he was conscious just long enough to realize his mouth was dry and the room was white. Very white…

The third time, consciousness wavered, flickered precariously, just out of reach. He struggled to hold onto it, and reviewed his past, thinking he could figure out where he was from where he had been. Which assumed, of course, logic and linearity, reasonable cause and effect.

He and the guys had gone to Mister’s, a popular after-work place for the upscale young professionals crowd. He’d finally paid off the last of his student loans. It had taken him five years, on a junior architect’s salary, but from now on, he was free and clear. Still had the car to pay off, but the snappy Corvette was worth it. Even if it was used. So they’d gone to the bar to celebrate.

“Hey, did you guys hear about Cheryl?” Kevin had asked Tom and Steve. They’d gotten their drinks and were lingering at the polished bar, ostensibly waiting for a free table. They place was, as always, busy.

“No, what about Cheryl?” Tom dutifully replied, loosening his tie. Kevin was okay, but, truthfully, he was a little boring. Unimaginative.

“She’s pregnant.”

Tom continued to scan the room. Not that he was a hound dog, but it wasn’t really news, was it. Women got pregnant. Big deal.

“Did you see the game last night?” Steve asked, also scanning the room. Now, he was a hound dog.

“You call that a game?” Tom laughed.

“Hey, that’s my team you’re disrespecting,” Steve protested, but laughed as well. It had been a dismal game. “Check out the blonde,” he added, nodding to the corner then making his way over.

But no, this wasn’t someone’s bedroom, Tom realized as things started coming into focus. It was too…stark. Almost institutional. It looked like a hospital room, he realized.

It was an accident, he thought then, his being in this situation. An accident…

But no, it wasn’t quite a hospital room, he realized the next time he awoke. There was a beige wrap-around curtain on his left. And a tv mounted on the wall near the ceiling. But the room didn’t have that over-the-top chrome and sterile ambience. And yet, the bed was definitely a hospital bed. The sheets were stiff and white, and the blanket, thin and pale blue.

He continued to claw his way to lucidity. He was cold. Very cold. He felt like he’d just come out of surgery. He remembered feeling this way when he’d had his appendix taken out.

“Hello—” he said feebly. Thickly. And yet he couldn’t remember drinking that much. Sure one or two beer, there was a woman—had she put something in his drink? No, that wouldn’t’ve been necessary, he thought. She was sort of hot. Hot enough, anyway. Besides, Misters’ wasn’t that kind of place.

He began to get alarmed then, because he couldn’t remember past that. He moved his head slowly toward the door to call out again, and saw the bank of medical equipment just behind his right shoulder. He jerked slightly as if to sit up and take a better look, but the reflex travelled no further than his chest.

“Hello—” He tried to make it louder this time. “Nurse—”

A stocky woman in her mid-forties entered the room. “Good morning, Tom,” she said cheerfully.

“What—” his mouth was so dry.

“I’m Carla,” she said, pouring a glass of ice chips from the pitcher on the bedside table. She held it to his lips. “One of the day nurses.”

“What happened?” he managed to say, after he’d swallowed a thin sliver of ice.

“You're doing just fine. No need for concern,” she put the glass back onto the table, then patted at the bedcovers a bit. “The call button’s right here by your hand,” she said, heading for the door. “The doctor will be in to see you soon,” she called back.

“Wait…” Tom slid into sleep again.

The morning after had found Steve in bed with a woman. A cell phone rang. He groaned, reached over to the night table, and answered it. “Hello?”

“Steve?” The young woman on the other end was surprised to hear his voice.

“Beth?” Steve was equally surprised to hear her voice.

“What are you doing with Tom's phone?” she asked.

Steve groaned. He hadn’t realized it was Tom's phone he'd answered. He hadn’t realized he’d had Tom’s phone. Must’ve picked it up by mistake at some point.

“Oh my god, is he okay? What hospital is he in?”

“Slow down. Wait a minute.” Steve sat up and tried to think. The woman beside him roused and looked at him with mild concern. “He's okay. He just—” he thought quickly. “He forgot his phone at the bar last night, that's all.”

“He was at the bar last night? But he said he'd— Then where—”

Steve backpedalled, trying to correct his mistake. “He's okay. I'm sure he'll be in touch soon.”

Beth figured it out. “So there's no need for me to start calling hospitals,” she said coldly.

“No.” What more could he say? Tom, you little devil, was what he thought.

Beth hung up. Steve shrugged, set the phone back on the table, then turned his attention to the woman in bed with him.

When Tom next woke, he tried to reach for the glass of ice chips, but it was, apparently, an impossible task. When he tried to lift his arm, it felt like dead weight. He couldn’t believe how weak, how lethargic, he was.

A few minutes later, or maybe it was hours, Dr. Anders entered briskly. She wore a clean and freshly pressed white lab coat. Her movements were efficient. She was cool, competent, and dispassionate. In other words, words the common man might use, she was a bitch.

She glanced at Tom’s sleeping body, checked the bag of clear fluid hanging on an IV stand, then began to read the various monitors, making notes on the clipboard she was carrying. Tom woke.

“Where am I?” he asked then, his voice scratchy. “Who are you?”

“You’re in a—health clinic. I’m Dr. Anders. You—”

“What happ—” he broke off as he finally managed to focus on her. He recognized her. “I remember you! Last night…”

He had watched her approach from across the room. She was trim, pretty, confident.

“Hi,” she had said to him. “Mind if I join you?”

“No, not at all,” he replied, charmed. And charming.

She sat on the empty stool beside him at the bar.

“What’ll you have?” Tom signaled to Ty, the bartender. He was a neat man, a clean towel always over his shoulder.

“A cosmopolitan, please.”

Ty nodded, and a moment later put the rubied concoction in front of her.

“So,” Tom started the old dance, “you work around here?”

“Wait a minute,” he said, continuing to struggle as his memory returned in bits and pieces. “You said you were a nurse—”

“No,” she spoke carefully, “I said I worked at a clinic. You assumed I was a nurse. Do you know why?” she added, an edge in her voice.

But he didn’t really hear the question.

“Did we—?” He frowned. No, that wouldn’t explain why he was there.

“We had a drink,” he tried again, grappling with his inability to remember, and then with the implications of his inability to remember. To remember even a thought he’d had a few hours, or was it days, ago.

“Did you put—” He tried, again, to wrap his head around the possibility of having been slipped the so-called date rape drug and—

“Did you—”

“No,” she said. Then added, “Not exactly.”

Her amendment didn’t register.

“How did I get here?” he asked. Then corrected, “How did you get me here?”

“Oh, don’t sound so surprised,” she said, with a little disdain. “Do you think it’s so impossible?”

He had a confused flash then, of leaning heavily on her and being helped into a car.

“You drugged me!”

Again, such surprise. She didn’t respond.

His realized then that his side hurt. “What did you—”

But he couldn’t even raise his hand to lift the covers and look. Had they taken a kidney? Was she part of some illegal organ transplant operation? He looked in vain at his body, completely covered by the bedding, then tried to take an internal inventory. “What did you take from me?” he asked, his anxiety turning to panic.

“Calm down,” she said. “We didn’t take anything. On the contrary, we gave you—”

He struggled to raise himself from the bed, and only then realized that his wrists were cuffed to the bedrails. He freaked. As anyone would upon discovering they’re a prisoner, held hostage. He had no idea.

“What the hell—why am I— What the hell are you doing to me?” he screamed.

“Just relax, Tom,” Dr. Anders calmly injected a sedative into his IV line. He slumped into unconsciousness once again. “It’ll be okay,” she added, the barest suggestion of sarcasm in her voice.

When Tom woke again, he was more quickly aware of his situation.

“NURSE!! SOMEONE!! HELP!!” He struggled against the cuffs. He could see they were just Velcro straps, but he pulled in vain. He leaned forward then, thinking maybe he could grab one of the ends with his teeth. Oh, shit, big mistake. Hurt like hell. He fell back against the pillows. What in god’s name had they done to him?

Dr. Anders walked in. “Good morning, Tom,” she said.

“I demand that you undo these restraints!” he glared at her.

“Are you in a position to make demands?” she asked him mildly. She put her fingers on his wrist and looked at her watch, taking his pulse.

He was seething as he considered and conceded. “I—I’d like to see a lawyer.”

“But you don’t even know yet what—”

“I know I’m here—in this—this situation, against my will. I didn’t agree to—” he gestured vaguely with his head and shoulders, “whatever—”

“You were agreeable enough Friday night.”

That caught him by surprise. “Not to this,” he said through clenched teeth.

She shrugged. Minor distinction.

He tried again. “I do not consent to this.”

She nodded, in agreement. As if she’d won the point.

“Wait a minute!” he said as she started to leave. “You really aren’t going to undo these?” He couldn’t believe it.

“Not yet. We’re concerned you might—hurt yourself.”

“Why would I—”

He saw then that a tube, suggestive of an umbilical cord, led from under the covers at his midsection to—he looked closely, for the first time, at the curtain running alongside his bed. And saw that the tube went through it to—to something.

“Oh my god,” he said. “What have you done? What have you done to me??” he shouted.

Dr. Anders administered the sedative she took from her pocket and he fell back against the pillows again, helpless.

Each time Tom woke, it took him a little less time to get up to speed.

“SOMEONE!! HELP!!”

Dr. Anders came through the door.

“I order you to take off these cuffs!” He was furious.

She looked at him, unimpressed. He's giving her an order?

“Look,” she said, “there’s really no need to be upset. The procedure went very well.” She checked the tube in his side. “I’d say congratulations are in—”

“What procedure?” he cut to the chase. “What have you done to me?”

She stopped her examination and faced him, giving him her full attention. “Something wonderful,” she said. “Tom,” she paused dramatically, “you’re giving someone life.” She pulled back the dividing curtain to reveal someone lying unconscious in a bed, flanked by medical equipment, all indicating life. “Without you, Simon would die.” She nodded at Simon. “This is Simon. Simon Arture. Have you heard of him?”

Tom was stunned, speechless with confusion and frustration.

“No? He’s a world‑famous violinist. And he has—he had a fatal kidney disease. But now, thanks to you, he’ll be completely cured.”

“What are you talking about?” he sputtered.

“It’s a simple procedure really, I won’t bother you with the details. Basically, if the connection is maintained for nine months, not only will the effects of the disease be reversed, the disease itself will have disappeared. He’ll live!”

“What connec—” He saw then that the tube from his midsection disappeared under the covers at Simon’s midsection. “What— What kind of joke—”

“Oh I wouldn’t kid around about something like this.”

“I’m—” he suddenly backtracked to something she had said. “You expect me to stay like this for nine months?” He was livid. “No fucking way!” He wrestled with the restraints with every ounce of his post-surgery strength. In vain.

“TAKE OFF THESE CUFFS!” he screamed. Bellowed.

She stood there, arms folded, as he raged. Eventually, he was spent.

“Tom, you should be happy. What can be more important than this?”

“Please,” he said. Then, “Look, I understand you’re trying to do something good here, saving this guy’s life and all, but this is simply not something I’m prepared to do.”

She didn’t respond. It was obviously not a compelling argument.

He tried again. “I did not give my consent to this.”

Apparently also not a compelling argument.

“You have no right to—to invade my body like this!”

When that too met no response, he suddenly turned off the calm and rational approach. He spoke in a steel hard voice with a barely concealed threat. “Take off these cuffs!”

Totally not responding to his tone of voice or his threat, which was, of course, completely empty, Dr. Anders said, “I’m sorry, Tom, I can’t do that. It’s for your own good, really. We’re afraid you’ll get hysterical—”

“Hysterical?” he said, his voice pitched hysterically high.

“—and disconnect.”

“You’re damn right I will!”

She waited for a moment.

“Didn’t you hear what I said? If you disconnect, Simon will die. You’ll be killing him. Are you a murderer? Tom? Do you want to kill him?”

He seethed. Of course he wasn’t a murderer. He was an architect. And the worst he’d ever done was get a few speeding tickets. Still. It was his life, damn it. And he didn’t like nine months of it being hijacked.

“Tom, it’s only for nine months.”

“I can’t take off work for nine months. I’ll lose my job.”

She shrugged. Not her problem.

Tom was silent. Then he broke into a rage again, screaming.

She administered a sedative, and he fell back into unconsciousness.

When he woke again, he roared.

Dr. Anders entered the room.

“Undo these cuffs!” he commanded.

“Sorry, no, not just yet. We thought the news might be a little disturbing. It’s for your own good really, to give you time to think about this.”

“But I don’t want—this! How can I put it any more plainly?” His rage was palpable.

“Once your MTS subsides a bit—”

He caught that. “MTS? I have MTS?”

“Male Testosterone Syndrome.”

“You— You bitch! I’ll show you male testosterone—” he started flinging his body from side to side against the rails. She had the sedative ready.

On Monday morning, Steve was walking jauntily down a corridor in the offices of Smith, Watts, and Barrow. He popped his head into Tom's office. It was empty. He grinned, shook his head, and kept walking.

Tom next woke to find Dr. Anders checking his monitoring equipment.

“Get away from me!” he screamed. “If you ever touch me again without my permission, I’ll kill you!”

Dr. Anders proceeded to touch him, to check his pulse and blood pressure.

“You have no right to—this is my body!”

Dr. Anders ignored his fury and continued to make notes on her clipboard.

“You've turned me into a fucking human dialysis machine!”

“You say that as if it's a bad thing,” she said. Then added, “And it’s a dialysator, actually.”

God but she was cold. “You won't get away with this! I didn't consent. I didn't sign anything.”

“No, you didn’t,” she easily agreed. But it didn’t seem to matter.

“You can't do this!”

She said nothing. She was doing this. She left the room, and Tom lay there, fuming.

“Good morning, Tom,” Dr. Anders strode into his room. “How are you feeling?”

He glowered at her.

“I know this has been quite an emotional shock, Tom, but I’m hoping you’re past your rage. I really don’t want to end up sedating you every time we have a conversation,” she almost smiled.

His first words were, again, a roar. “THEN YOU SHOULDN’T’VE—”

“Tom, enough with the tantrums,” she sounded so patronizing.

“Tantrums?” He was flabbergasted.

“Yes. This is getting old, Tom. The sooner you accept the situation, the better. Grow up. Face reality.”

“Grow up?” he said with disbelief. “Face reality?”

“If you can do that,” she said in a tone one uses for a child, “I’d like to undo the restraints. But I need your word that you won’t do anything—ill‑considered. We’re trusting you not to do anything rash. You obviously have a choice to make. I just hope you’ll give it some thought. You do understand that if you disconnect, Simon will die, yes?”

“Yes, I get that,” he said tightly. “And it’s a helluva choice,” he added, spitting the words out. “How dare you put me in this position!”

“I recognize it can be difficult for some.”

“Difficult?” What an understatement.

“Suppose I do decide to—” he asked then. “What will happen to me? If that thing gets disconnected.”

“Well, the shunt goes directly into your kidney. And it’s sutured in there pretty good. Certainly you’d cause some damage.”

“But would I die? If it gets yanked out, what, I bleed to death?”

She shrugged. Didn’t care, or didn’t know, or wouldn’t say. The cold professional was back.

“I asked you a question!” he yelled at her as she walked away.

The next time Tom woke, he realized the restraints were off. He sat up, looked around guiltily for some reason, then lifted the covers away from his midsection. His side was bandaged where the tube was inserted. He peeled back the bandage, a little too roughly, and winced. He saw that a tube was indeed stitched into his side. The stitching looked a little gruesome, but he figured that was probably normal. He fingered the bruised, reddened, and puffy area, then tentatively tugged on the tube. He cried out and stopped immediately.

The point of insertion started bleeding, but not profusely. But the tube was now a little crooked. He put the bandage back over the wound and pressed on it to stop the bleeding. He was sweating. What had he done? Was he bleeding internally? After a few seconds, he lifted the bandage again—the bleeding had slowed a little. He continued to apply pressure, as he leaned carefully back against the pillows. Should he call for help? No, they’d just put the restraints on again. But was he bleeding to death? Before he could make up his mind, he fell asleep. Or passed out.

When he awoke again, the restraints were still off. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was the phone sitting on the bed stand. Had it been there all along? Probably. He glanced over at Simon, since the curtain had been left open, and saw that he was still unconscious. So he reached out for the phone, but then suddenly reached instead for a plastic-lined bag conveniently hanging on his IV stand. When he finished throwing up, he sealed the bag, tossed it into the trash can he found conveniently beside his bed, and reached again for the phone. He set it on the bed beside him and made a call.

“9-1-1. What is the nature—”

“Hello,” Tom interrupted, “could you please send an officer to the Anders Clinic?”

“What is the nature of your emergency?” She had a script to follow.

“It’s not exactly an emergency,” Tom said. “But it is urgent.”

“What is the nature of the problem, sir?”

“I’d like to lay charges. Kidnapping.” He looked down at this side. “And assault.”

“You are being held against your will at—” she tapped a few keys, “the Anders clinic?”

“Yes.” He glanced nervously at the door.

“And you have been assaulted?”

“Yes. Sort of. Yes.”

There was a moment’s pause at the other end of the line. “Are you in immediate danger?” the woman asked.

“Well, no, not exactly.”

There was another pause. “Is there someone monitoring your conversation?”

“No.” Geez, he hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“But you are in no immediate danger.”

“Well, no, I don’t think so, but—”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Tom Wagner. W‑A‑G‑N‑E‑R.” He glanced at the door again. But heard no footsteps.

“Can you confirm the address of 73 Seventh Avenue?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know the address. I’m in one of the rooms.”

“Do you know which room you’re in?” she asked.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t, but—”

“An officer will be by tomorrow to take your statement.”

Tomorrow? TOMORROW? “But—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but all our available personnel are on emergency calls at the moment. If your life is in danger—”

“It is—”

“Immediate danger?”

“No—but— Tomorrow will be fine,” he sighed. And hung up. Our tax money at work, he thought bitterly. Then, exhausted by the effort, and the defeat, fell asleep.

The next call he made was to his place of employment.

“Smith, Watts, and Barrow.”

“Hi—” Tom couldn’t remember their receptionist’s name. Hadn’t actually ever spoken to her. “Mr. Watts, please.”

“One moment please.”

He hadn’t yet decided quite how— “Hello, sir. This is Tom—”

“Tom! Are you all right?” He swiveled his chair away from the work spread out on his desk, and looked out the large window to the street below. If he had a favorite among the young architects at the firm, it was Tom. He had seen good things in Tom’s future.

“Yes, thank you—”

“We were concerned when you didn’t show up for work Monday.” In point of fact, he was also disappointed. “It’s not like you. But Steve assured us—”

“That’s why I’m calling, sir. Something’s come up and I’m afraid—well, I’ll need to take a few more days—”

“Tom, you should have given notice—” Very disappointed.

“Well it was very—unexpected—”

“We’re swamped at the moment,” Watts said. “I don’t know—”

“I appreciate that, but—”

“Tom, you’re putting me in a very awkward position, here.” He couldn’t be seen to play favorites, let alone to endorse this sort of irresponsibility.

“I apologize, sir.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Just a few more days,” Tom said. “I promise.”

“Well, I’ll have to dock your pay, of course.”

“Of course. That’s only fair.” Shit.

“And we expect you back on Monday, Tom.”

“I understand.”

“Fine, then,” he swiveled his chair back to his desk.

“Thank you, sir.”

He didn’t wake again until much later when Dr. Anders walked in. He watched her in silence as she checked Simon’s monitors, his pulse, and his blood pressure, then turned back the covers to check the connection. He tensed just a bit as she turned to his bed and proceeded to do the same.

“Hm,” she said, pulling back the bloodied bandage. “A couple stitches seem to have come out,” she looked at him accusingly.

“I must’ve rolled over in my sleep,” Tom said. It was unconvincing, but he really didn’t give a damn.

“You have to be more careful now. Get used to sleeping on your back.”

“For nine months?”

She shrugged, then headed out of the room.

“You won’t get away with this!” he called out after her. “This is coercion pure and simple.”

She stopped and turned back to him. “Call the police if you like.”

He turned away, and she realized then that he already had. Not a problem. She had expected that. “It’s your word against mine, Tom.”

“You can’t make me do this!”

She said nothing. She was making him do this.

After she left, Tom lay there, fuming. Suddenly, he reached for a vomit bag and threw up again. As he sealed it and rehung it on the IV stand, he realized Carla must’ve come in while he was asleep and exchanged the one he’d already used for a new one. For several new ones, in fact.

Dr. Anders returned with a suture kit.

“Why am I throwing up all the time?” he asked her. “Is something wrong?”

“No, that’s just one of the side effects. It’s nothing to worry about.” She began to repair the stitches.

“One of the side effects?” he repeated her words. “There are others?”

“Well, fatigue, of course. Heartburn and indigestion. Constipation. Weight gain. Though you might be able to lose the extra pounds afterwards. And incontinence. We can get you a diaper for that,” she continued her repair, seemingly oblivious to Tom’s horrified reaction. “Backaches, headaches. Skin rash. Changes in sense of smell and taste, chemical imbalances. Dizziness and light-headedness.”

He just stared at her, stunned.

For several days, Carla had been helping Tom get accustomed to negotiating his way to and from the adjoining bathroom without incident. She also insisted that he walk around the room several times a day.

“The sooner patients get back on their feet, the better their recovery,” Carla said. “Plus, the exercise will make you feel better.”

He was glad to be up and about, but found that getting around was ridiculously exhausting and stressful. Plus, he felt like he was in some stupid maypole dance.

He was asleep when two uniformed police officers knocked on the door, then entered the room. The older one, Tanner, sported a grey crew cut. Pelletier, the younger one, was a solid six foot plus still trying to overcome a habitual stoop. Tanner glanced quickly around the room, then decided that this would be a good one for Pelletier to take the lead. He went back to stand at the door and nodded to Pelletier.

“Mr. Wagner?” The young officer stepped up to the foot of Tom’s bed and waited a moment. “Tom Wagner?” he glanced uncertainly at the curtain running alongside the bed, resisting the urge to look over to his training officer for direction.

Tom moaned, moved, then woke.

“Oh—hello,” he said when he saw him standing there. “Come in.” The officers were already in. “I mean—” Tom carefully pushed himself into a sitting position and ran a hand through his dark hair in a feeble attempt to appear presentable.

“Sorry to have wakened you,” Pelletier said. “Would you like us to come back later?” Tanner scowled with disapproval. Pelletier was too damned polite.

“No, I’m fine,” Tom struggled to get up to speed. “Now is good. Please.” He gestured to the chair in the corner, and only then saw that there was a second officer standing at the door.

“I’m Officer Pelletier,” he man showed Tom his badge, “and that’s Officer Tanner.” Tanner gave a curt nod. Pelletier pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat in it, a bit intimidated by bank of medical machinery humming away.

Tom poured a glass of water to buy some time to get his thoughts in order. This was important. Very important.

“I understand you’d like to press charges,” Pelletier took out a small notebook. “You reported a kidnapping?” He looked around then and let his confusion surface.

“Yes, uh—” Tom set the glass back on the bedside table.

Pelletier had his pen poised. “If you’d just tell me what happened,” he prompted. “And who—

“Me.” Tom pressed his fingers to his temple.

“But—”

“I was at the bar Friday night,” Tom looked evenly at Pelletier, “and the next thing I know I wake up here. Like this.”

Pelletier didn’t understand. “But it seems to me you’re free to—”

Tom pulled back the bedcovers.

Pelletier’s eyes widened when he saw the tube bandaged in place. He followed it to where it disappeared through a break in the curtain.

“Go ahead.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s in a coma or something.” Tom waved his hand toward Simon.

Pelletier stood then, walked around the bed to the curtain, and gently moved it aside. He saw Simon, unconscious, as Tom had indicated, and noted that the tube disappeared under Simon’s bedcovers, again at his side.

“Go ahead,” Tom urged again. “You need to know.”

He stepped forward to Simon, then lifted enough of the covers to see the tube bandaged into his side. “What the—” He looked back at Tom, then again at Simon.

“Yeah,” Tom said.

Pelletier gestured to Tanner, who stepped forward to take a look. He frowned. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning,” he suggested, then resumed his position at the door. Pelletier sat back down in the chair, ready with his notebook.

“Friday night. I was at a bar.”

“That’d be last Friday,” Pelletier confirmed.

“Yeah. I think so. What is today, Tuesday?”

“Thursday.”

“Oh. I’ve been out a fair bit.” He slumped back against the pillows.

“Do you remember the name of the bar? Was there anyone with you?”

“Yeah,” he rallied, “we went to Misters. Me, Steve—Steve Lambiel, and Kevin Ortiz. We all work at Smith, Watts, and Barrow. It’s a small architectural firm here in town. We’re architects.”

“Okay. Good,” he was making notes. “And what happened, exactly.”

“This woman came over to us—Dr. Anders. Well, I didn’t know her name then. I didn’t know her. She just came over. You know, being friendly, I guess. We chatted a bit. Then Steve and Kevin joined another table. Cruising, you know. She and I stayed at the bar.”

“Dr. Anders and you.”

“Yeah. Next thing I know I’m waking up here, cuffed to the bed, with this tube in me, connected to him.” He’d been calmly presenting the facts until then, but now his anger returned.

“You were restrained?” Pelletier jumped on that. “They put restraints on you?”

“Yeah. They took them off after a few days. Once they were convinced I wouldn’t yank the tube out.”

“So that was for your own safety then.” He seemed a bit disappointed.

“They explained that he’d die if I did,” Tom jerked his head slightly toward Simon. “If we stay connected for nine months, kidney to kidney, he’ll live.”

Pelletier struggled to take it all in. “You’re, like, a human kidney dialysis machine?”

“A dialysator. Apparently.”

“Why don’t they just use a machine?”

“I don’t know. But that’s not really relevant, is it.” Tom glared at the man.

“No, of course not,” Pelletier said. “Sorry. It’s just— Do you have any recollection of force being used? I mean apart from keeping you from pulling out the tube. Any witnesses?” Pelletier glanced at his notes. “Steve or Kevin—did they see you leave?”

“I don’t remember—I’m thinking she must have drugged me. But they must’ve seen me leave. They must’ve seen her dragging me—”

“But that could’ve looked like you were just a little drunk.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

“Do you remember who was tending bar that night? Perhaps the bartender saw her put something into your drink?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom rallied at this possibility. “It was Ty. Don’t know his last name. He’s their regular bartender.”

Pelletier added his name to his notes. “Anyone else?”

“We’ll look into it,” Tanner spoke up. Otherwise they’d be here all day. “We’ll ask around at the bar,” he said to Tom, “and we’ll contact your friends, but unless we find someone to back up your story, something to prove you didn’t consent to this—”

“But she doesn’t have proof that I did consent.” The thought suddenly occurred to him that he might have signed something. “Does she?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tanner replied. “We assume you consented unless there’s evidence to the contrary.” He said it as if it were a rule of thumb.

“What?” Tom stared at him in disbelief. “Why would you assume I consented?” He gave a little laugh bordering on hysteria. “I mean what makes you think anyone would agree to—this?”

“Well, not anyone.”

“What makes you think I would agree to this?” He was starting to feel like he had awakened into some alternate reality.

Tanner ignored the question. “Do you have evidence to the contrary? Evidence that you were coerced?”

“Well, no but—”

“So at this point, all we’ve got is your word, son.” He indicated to Pelletier that it was time to go. Pelletier stood, nodded to Tom, and the two of turned toward the door. Tom realized then that nothing would come of this.

“Since when is that not good enough?” he called out angrily after them.

Once they’d left, he lay there, frustrated again. Angry again. He stared at the tube. He tugged on it again; it hurt. If he tugged it from Simon’s end, instead of his, it wouldn’t hurt, he realized. He’s in a coma, he wouldn’t feel a thing. But— But.

First thing next morning—well, first thing after the time it took to manage the whole bed-to-bathroom thing, which included throwing up, and then to deal with breakfast and Carla’s insistence on a little walk-around, and then to endure Anders’ check-up—Tom called Steve.

“Hey, Steve!” his enthusiastic greeting was totally not how he felt. But he was trying to hang on to—

“Tom! Been busy, yeah?” he heckled him.

“Don’t I wish,” he knew what Steve was thinking, and tried to go along with the razz. “But no—what happened is—look, it’s a long story—”

I’m listening,” he laughed. “But hey, you better get your ass in here, Watts is having a bird.”

“Yeah, well, no can do,” he sighed. “Look, why I’m calling—can you get my laptop and bring it to me? If I don’t get some work done, Watts is not only going to have a bird, he’s going to fire my ass. And—oh, shit, my car!”

“What about your car?” Steve loved Tom’s ’Vette.

“It’s still at the bar.”

“You took her car?”

“No, I’m not—I’m at some place called the Anders Clinic,” he sighed again.

“But—a clinic?” Steve didn’t understand. He couldn’t. “You okay?”

“Yeah, well, sort of.”

“What are you doing there? I mean, what’s the Anders Clinic? I’ve never heard of it.”

“I’d never heard of it either. Look, we’ll talk when you come, okay? I’m really tired—”

“Okay, sure,” Steve readily agreed, finally grasping that something was off. This was very unlike Tom. “What’s the address?”

“Seventh Avenue somewhere.”

“Spare key in your apartment?”

“Yeah, um, it’s in my desk drawer. Top right. Oh, and could you bring my shaving kit. And stuff, clothes…” he trailed off vaguely.

“Okay, look, I’ll come after—oh shit, no, I’m gone from right after work today until Monday. Late. Tuesday after work good?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, sighing once more. “And hey, Steve? Force your way in if you have to, okay?”

Steve laughed.

“I’m serious,” Tom said.

“Dude, you’re freakin’ me out,” Steve said then.

“Tell me about it,” Tom said, then hung up and fell asleep.

The dividing curtain was pulled back much of the time now. And if it wasn’t, Tom could, if he really wanted to, get up and pull it back. Which he often did, since the only window in the room was on the wall past Simon. Which meant, however, that Tom couldn’t look out at the world now without seeing him.

But look out he did. Their room was on the ground floor, so he might have been able to see people walking by on the sidewalk and cars driving by on the road, but that side of the building was flanked by a large open field. So he saw those other lives being lived only in the distance. Which might be just as well, he thought, if only because it meant he didn’t have to hear the annoying noises of traffic all day.

And the silence let him think. Made him think. It’s only nine months, he told himself, and though it’s not something I would have chosen to do, now that I’m in this position, can I really justify saying no?

And yet, and yet, damn it, I didn’t choose it. What right does she, or he, or anyone have to force me to do this?

But then, hey, he told himself, at least you’re not dying. And Simon is. Was. Would be. Shit.

Tom was sleeping lightly, as he did now. The anaesthesia drugs he had been given for the procedure, and whatever he had been given post-surgery, had finally run their course. And although normally he was a heavy sleeper, he assumed the stress of the situation was what had changed that. And the fact that he couldn’t lay on his side. In any case, he roused quickly when he heard a knock at the door.

He sat up eagerly. “Steve?” Was it Tuesday already?

A small, balding man in clerical garb poked his head around the door.

“Who are you?” Tom asked, disappointed and wary.

“I’m—I do the pastoral care for several clinics—”

“A priest?” Tom responded. “They’ve sent me a fucking priest?”

The man winced. “A minister, actually. Reverend Peters. May I come in?”

“Sure, what the hell.”

Rev. Peters entered the room, searched for a chair, spotted it in the corner. “May I?”

Tom nodded. Barely.

Rev. Peters carried the chair over to Tom’s bed, then sat at his elbow.

“So,” Rev. Peters cleared his throat, “how can I help you through this difficult time?”

Tom burst out in laughter. It bordered on hysteria. “See, that's just the thing. I don't want to go ‘through’ this difficult time. I don't want to be in this ‘difficult time’ at all. I don't want to have to make this decision.”

“Well…”

“Well what? That’s life? Que sera sera?” He snorted. Then realized he had nothing else to do. “Okay, so how can you help me through this difficult time?”

“Well,” Rev. Peters was cheered by his interest and leaned back in his chair. “I think you’ll find it’s quite simple really. Thou shalt not kill.”

“That’s it?” Tom said.

“That’s it.” He smiled.

He thinks it’s that simple, Tom thought. Pitiful, really. “And why is that?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why shall I not kill?” Had the man never been asked for rationales?

“Oh, well, because life is—all life is—”

“Every sperm is sacred?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Tom turned away in disgust. And boredom.

“Surely you believe in the sanctity of life?” Rev. Peters tried again.

“Okay, what about the sanctity of my life?”

“But your life isn’t at stake here.”

“The hell it isn't!” Tom shouted.

“But surely they explained. If you disconnect, Simon will die. That's certain. It's not at all certain that you'll die.”

The man had a point. Still.

“Surely you see that this is the right thing to do.”

He did. And yet.

“You have a chance here—it’s an honor, a privilege, to be in this position. To be the one who saves someone’s life, to be the one who gives someone his life—”

Tom skipped over that shit. He had an idea. “And it's wrong not to save someone's life.”

“Surely.”

“And if I refuse to give my body, I'm killing Simon.”

Rev. Peters nodded.

“So why are you still here?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve got a couple kidneys, yeah? Two lungs, a heart, a liver. And a whole bunch of other stuff. Bet you could give life to a dozen people waiting for transplants.”

Rev. Peters stumbled for a response.

“What’s the matter?” Tom asked. “Walk, don’t run, to the nearest clinic. Every second you delay, you’re killing someone. Reverend.”

“If the Lord wanted—I have to believe it’s not my calling—”

“Well, isn’t that convenient.”

Rev. Peters got up to leave.

“I’ll pray for you, Tom.”

Tom ignored him, pointedly looking the other way—which happened to be at Simon.

Rev. Peters walked out.

A little while later, Tom experimentally bent the tube, stopping the flow. He thought for a bit, then gathered the slack and looped it to see whether it could be knotted; it could be, he thought. He looked around the room, opened the drawer of the little table, rummaged through it, looked around again—not a sharp object in sight.

Didn’t matter. He realized, while the loop lay loosely in his hand, that it would never hold a knot. If he squeezed his end real tight, he might make it to Emerg, somehow, without spurting all over the place, but Simon would surely bleed out. Plus, he realized, no knife or scissors could ever cut through whatever the hell the tube was made of.

As he stared again at the corded tube lying limp in his hand, he realized that there were actually two smaller tubes inside the larger one. Which made sense, now that he thought of it. The flow had to be two-way. How much of his body was Simon and how much was still him, he wondered. He still felt like himself. Well, mostly. Of course, it was only blood, nutrients, and whatever. It wasn’t his identity leaking out.

At least, not yet.

Next morning, as soon as he awoke, he’d intended to call a lawyer. Instead, the first thing he did was throw up. He tied off the plastic bag, dropped it in the trash can, then drank a glass of water to get the taste out of his mouth.

Then he reached over and pulled open the drawer on the bedside table. He was in luck. He pulled out the phone book, and flipped through. A few minutes later, he reached for the phone and dialed a number.

“Tawson, Schuler, Neder, and Burman.”

“Hello, I’d like to speak with a lawyer,” Tom said.

“Certainly,” the woman replied pleasantly, “civil or criminal?”

“I don’t know—”

“What is the matter concerning?”

“Personal injury, I guess. Contracts maybe.”

“I’ll transfer you to Mr. Dupond. One moment, please.”

“Thank you.”

Tom waited a few moments, during which he was forced to listen to some overly sweet jazz. Oh well, at least he hadn’t had to deal with one of those annoying automated answering systems.

“Gregory Dupond speaking.” The voice was quick and strong.

“Hello, my name is Tom Wagner, and I’m wondering if you’re available to take on a new case.”

“That depends. What’s the case about?”

“Well, it’s a bit complicated. I’d rather talk about it in person. And unfortunately you’d have to come here. I’m, um, unable to travel.”

There was a slight pause.

“I’d have to charge for my time in transit,” Dupond said, almost apologetically.

“Of course. And what’s your fee?”

“Three hundred an hour, plus disbursements.”

“Three hundred? I see,” Tom thought for just a second. “Okay, no, by phone is fine then. What happened is—”

“I’m sorry to cut you off,” Dupond said, “but I don’t have any time right at the moment. Could you call back…” he checked his daybook, “next Wednesday at two?”

“Next week?”

“I’m sorry, that’s the best I can do. If you’d like to call around—”

“No, that’s fine,” Tom was too exhausted to call around. “Thanks.” He hung up and fell asleep.

“Is he okay?” Tom asked Carla next time she came into his room, nodding at Simon who continued to lay unconscious.

“He is,” she replied, as she bustled around, making sure there were enough vomit bags, and emptying the small waste can beside his bed. “It’s just taking him longer—the procedure was harder on him, you understand. He was weak to begin with, because of the disease and all,” she said, refilling the glass on the little table from the pitcher beside it. “You, however, were in great shape. We’re all very pleased. You’re actually very well-suited for this. A natural, you could say.”

Tom smiled at the praise before he realized what he was doing.

Back at Misters, a taxi pulled into the bar’s parking lot. Steve got out, paid the driver, and headed over to Tom's gleaming silver Corvette which was, miraculously, still there. He cleared a bunch of parking tickets off the windshield, then opened the door with Tom’s spare key, which he’d gotten from his apartment. He got in, set Tom’s laptop on the seat beside him, turned the ignition, and smiled.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the Anders Clinic. It was a small building just outside the downtown core, and in truth, he’d never noticed it before although he must’ve driven past it hundreds of times on his way to work.

He walked in the front door, Tom’s laptop in one hand, a small travel bag in the other, and stopped at the small reception desk. The place was clean and had an antiseptic smell to it. What was Tom doing here? Had he had work done? Something he was too embarrassed to tell anyone about?

“Hi, I’m here to see Tom Wagner.”

The red-haired woman behind the desk nodded to the short hallway that extended off to the right. “Around the corner at the end, last door on your left.”

“Thank you,” Steve said.

He walked down the hall, turned the corner, then pushed open the last door on the left, which had been slightly ajar.

“What the hell—” He took in the bank of medical equipment bedside Tom’s bed and then Tom himself, who was sleeping and not looking too well. Quickly setting the laptop and bag on the chair, he stepped up to the bed.

“Tom, hey, Tom,” he gently shook his shoulder. “Wake up, man. Tom!”

Tom woke up.

“Hey, dude, are you okay?” Steve asked. “What the hell happened?”

“Hey. Steve,” he said blearily. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushed away the thanks, “you get mugged or something? This all from last Friday? Why didn’t you call me?!”

Tom struggled to become alert, then convulsed a bit as if he was going to throw up, but managed not to. He reached to the bedside table for the ever-present glass of water, drained it to get rid of the taste in his mouth, then slumped back against the pillow. Steve pulled up the chair, sat, and waited.

“Oh man, is it good to see you,” Tom said.

“Yeah, cool, but—”

“Okay. You remember that woman who came over to us at the bar Friday night?”

“Yeah. Not my type. But you left with her—”

“Not exactly. I mean, I don’t remember that. I think she put something in my drink.”

Steve reacted with surprise, then disbelief.

“I remember you and Kev trotting over to that threesome, and I remember I tried to call Beth—shit, Beth!” He reached to the phone.

“It’s okay. I called her already.”

Tom didn't know how to respond to that, so he just continued with his story.

“Next thing I know I wake up here. Like this.” He lifted the bedcovers at his side. “Check it out.”

Steve got half out of the chair to look, but didn't understand what he saw.

“They said this guy, Simon Artura, or Arture, I think—anyway, he’s dying. That’s him,” he nodded at the drawn curtain. “Some rare kidney disease or something. They’ve connected my kidneys to his. That’s what that is,” he pointed. “We stay connected for nine months, and he’ll live. I disconnect, and he dies.”

Steve was quiet for several long moments. “Shit. For real?” He got up and peeked around the curtain.

“Looks like.”

Steve saw Simon lying, still unconscious, in his bed. And he saw the cord-like tube leading from one bed to the other.

“’Course, how the hell would I know?!” Tom continued, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “I know I’m throwing up, I know I’m tired all the time, I know my side hurts like hell—”

“Why?”

“Because of the damn—”

“No, I mean why did she—what’s her name?”

“Anders.”

“Why is she doing this? Does she have a thing for this Simon guy?”

“I don’t think so,” Tom said. “She barely looks at him. Well, she checks his monitors and that, but she doesn’t look overly concerned or anything.”

“Then what? Is she on a mission to save the world or something?”

“I don’t get that impression.”

“I know! She’s doing it—because she can!” Steve laughed, but Tom just wasn’t up for it.

Steve quickly sobered. “So, what, if you, like, break the thing or something, he dies?”

Tom was silent.

“Well, not that I’m heartless or anything, but so what. I mean, it’s your decision, but if it were me?” Steve shrugged. “Why should you suddenly be the one responsible for this guy’s life? No one asked you, right? And if they had, you’d’ve said no, right?”

“Right,” Tom said. “And yet,” he added a long moment later.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Steve was amazed at the whole thing, including Tom's acquiescence. Tom was just tired.

“They sent in a minister to talk to me,” Tom offered.

“Geez. What’d he have to say? The meek shall inherit the earth?”

“Thou shalt not kill.”

“Christ, we fucking kill all the time!” Steve practically spat. “War! The death penalty! Self‑defence! ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Asshole.”

They fell quiet again. Steve got up, paced the room a bit, then turned back to Tom. “Isn't there some way to undo this? I mean, I can get Kev and we can—no, that’s not gonna…,” he trailed off, then tried again. “It's just surgery, right? If they did it, they can undo it. Or someone can, right? How hard can it be?”

Tom sat up a bit, energized by what Steve had said. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Because he'd been so damned tired all the time! In fact, even as he tried to hang on to Steve’s idea, he started to nod off.

Steve saw that, so he got up to leave, pausing at the door. “I'm, ah, going to—oh, here.” He took Tom’s car keys out of his pocket and started to put them on the bed beside Tom. Then he hesitated, thinking about asking whether he could have his car in the interim, since he clearly wouldn’t be using it, but changed his mind. “I'm gonna go,” he set the keys down.

Tom waved at him weakly. See ya? No, stay?

Steve was suddenly overcome with dismay. Tom was—well, this wasn’t the Tom he knew. He paused at the door. “I'll call. But hey—dude—you don't owe this guy anything.”

Toward evening, Carla brought in his dinner tray. It always had smaller portions than he was used to, but since he didn’t have much of an appetite and wasn’t really doing anything, that was fine. What bothered him was that apparently he wasn’t going to be eating burgers and fries for quite a while. Rice, vegetables, yogurt — what the hell was up with that?

He finished eating, and when she returned to take his tray away, she reminded him that it would be good to get up and walk around a bit. So he began the complicated process of getting out of bed without killing himself, or Simon, and walked the semi-circle from corner to corner. Then walked it back. Then walked it again. He opened the window, breathed in the fresh air, watched someone cut across the field to the intersection of streets in the distance. Tom was desperate to disconnect from Simon. If he could get even an hour’s respite, an hour’s freedom of movement — but there was just no getting away from him.

Next morning, Dr. Anders walked in, clipboard in hand, checked Simon’s monitors and pulse, then checked Tom’s monitors. She made some notes.

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?” Tom said, watching her. “You have no right to—to—”

“Invade your body like this? Maybe not.” She didn’t seem too concerned.

This, of course, increased his anger.

She took his blood pressure. “You need to calm down, Tom.”

“Calm down?” he echoed, sarcastically.

“If you’d just trust me—”

“And why should I do that?”

“Well—I am a doctor, Tom. I know what I’m doing, believe me. And while an increase in blood pressure is expected, you don’t want to—”

“Expected? You mean because of—this? What else is ‘expected’?” he asked. “I thought you told me all the side‑effects last week.”

“Well, yes, the minor side‑effects. But there are others.”

He waited, but she didn’t volunteer the additional information. “Such as?” he prompted.

“Well, infection. That can be serious. But this looks okay,” she said, as she changed the bandage at the insertion point.

“And?” Again, he had to ask. It was like pulling teeth.

“Diabetes, anemia, embolism—”

“Wait a minute—embolism? Isn’t that pretty serious?”

“Yes.” As if to say ‘What’s your point?’

She put her fingers on his wrist to take his pulse.

“Stroke,” she continued then, almost as a careless afterthought. “Circulatory collapse, and cardiopulmonary arrest—”

Tom was stunned. “I could die because of this?”

“The chances are something like 1 in a 100,” she said casually.

“Isn’t that a little high?”

She didn’t respond. She had finished her check-up and left.

Meanwhile, or thereabouts, Steve was playing golf with Kyle, one of his friends. It was an unseasonally warm and sunny day. And not even a hint of breeze.

“So where’s Tom?” Kyle asked him, as they stood on the putting green at the second hole. They usually had a threesome.

“Off the radar, looks like,” was all he said. And sunk his putt with a perfect pendulum stroke.

They started walking to the next hole.

“So you finally sold the Jones property?” Steve asked.

“Yup.” He grinned at Steve. “And the commission, well, let's just say it’ll go a good way toward that little dream of mine...”

“Is that the one with the lake out front and the mountains out back?” Steve asked, playfully.

“Tennis court on one side,” Kyle was still grinning, “golf course on the other—”

“I don't think that's physically possible, is it? Not a lot of flat green near mountains.”

“Hey,” Kyle was undisturbed, “this is my dream. I can have whatever I want.”

Steve laughed. “Okay, that's cool. But when you find and buy that dream lot, you know who to call to design your dream house.’

“Of course,” he bent to pick up a stray twig, then looked sideways at Steve, grinning, “Especially if I want mirrors on the ceiling in the bedroom.”

Next day, Tom woke up, threw up, then looked over at Simon, who was still unconscious. He suddenly remembered he hadn’t yet called Beth. He looked at his watch. She’d be on her way to work, quite possibly stuck in traffic. So he reached for the phone and dialed a number.

“Beth! Hey!”

“Tom.” Icy.

“I know, and I tried to call—”

“You said you were going to come over Friday night.”

“And I was,” he insisted.

“When?”

“After I had a drink with the guys.”

“That’s a long drink.”

“Well, something happened—”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Right. Steve told you—”

“Why didn’t I hear it from you?”

“I’ve had other things on my mind!” he said with exasperation.

“More important things than calling me?”

“Yes, more important things. This is a nightmare. I’m throwing up all the time, I’m too tired to get any work done, my eyes are all blurry, this thing in my side hurts—”

“Right.” She crawled forward a car length. “Tom, it’s the same old story. Everything in your life is more important than me.”

“Look, I should’ve called sooner,” he said. “And I would’ve called sooner, but I’m just so fucking tired all the time. I sleep most of the time and when I’m not sleeping,” he trailed off, “I’m just so tired.”

“So you’re okay,” she said after a moment, seeming to have come to a decision. “There’s nothing you need?”

“Actually, there is one thing,” he said. “Could you swing by my place and get my mail?”

There was another pause.

“So what, you expect me to be your office assistant for nine months?”

“No! Because I’m not really planning to be here for nine months.”

“How long are you expecting to be there?”

“I don’t know!” he said with frustration.

“Look, I gotta go,” she said, as the cars ahead of her starting moving freely.

“Yeah. Later.” He hung up. That did not go well.

A while later, he opened his laptop, intending to finally get some work done. What he’d do for a strong cup of coffee, he thought. Apparently that was also not on the menu.

“Shit!”

He reached for the phone and dialed a number.

“Steve Lambiel, please.”

“Lambiel.”

“Hey, Steve!”

“Tom, what’s up, you okay?” He turned away from the blueprint displayed on his over-sized monitor.

“Yeah, listen, could you go into my office—I need my IP files. I’ve got nothin’ here on my laptop, everything’s on my desktop.”

“Sure, but—all of them?” he asked.

“Right. Okay, how about just Everstein and Duchesnay. That should do me for a few days.”

“No problem. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour—I can take care of it after that.”

“Cool, thanks man.”

Next day, or maybe it was the day after the next day, he was quickly losing all sense of time passing—that’s why meals are so important to prisoners, he realized, they’re scratches on the wall marking time. Well, one reason they’re so important, he thought. The other, that they were the most exciting thing to happen during the day, didn’t bear thinking.

He opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the phone book again. It took just a moment to find the number of the local hospital. On the first ring, he hung up immediately, got out of bed, laboriously, closed the door, returned to bed, as laboriously, then dialed again.

“Mercy General. How may I direct your call?”

“Ah—I’m not—what department handles kidney dialysis?”

“Nephrology. One moment please.”

He reached into his laptop case, which he’d set on the chair he’d pulled close to his bed, and took out a pen and pad of paper.

“Nephrology.”

“Hello, I’m—ah,” he glanced nervously at the door, “are you familiar with the procedure that makes someone a dialysator?” He grimaced at his awkward phrasing.

“You mean a dialysis machine.”

“Not exactly. I mean a person who’s serving as a dialysis machine.”

“Ah, you're talking about a nephrodesis.”

“A nephrodesis, right, thanks.” He made a note. “How would I, how would someone go about undoing a nephrodesis?”

There was a slight pause. “That’d be a surgical procedure.”

“I see. Could you—” He looked into the receiver—the person on the other end had hung up.

He dialed again.

“Mercy General. How may I direct your call.”

“Chief of Surgery, please.” Tom tried to sound strong and authoritative.

“Surgery.”

“Hello, may I speak to the Chief of Surgery, please.”

“I'm sorry, the Chief is not available at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?”

“Is there someone else I can speak to, in Surgery?”

“One moment please.”

“Dr. O’Donnell speaking.”

“Hello, Dr. O’Donnell. Um, my name is Tom Wagner and—I'm wondering—can you undo a nephrodesis?”

“I'm afraid we have no one here trained to do a nephrodesis reversal,” the response was clipped.

“I see. Can you tell me which hospitals have surgeons trained to do a—nephrodesis reversal?”

“I'm afraid I can't, no,” Dr. O’Donnell said.

“I see. Thank you.” But Dr. O’Donnell had already hung up.

Tom also hung up, a little puzzled, but pressed on. He dialed another number from the short list in the yellow pages.

“Hello, could I please speak to the Chief of Surgery?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Tom Wagner.”

“And you are…?”

“Anyone in Surgery will do,” Tom realized his mistake.

There was a short silence, then a new voice spoke. “Dr. Verin’s office.”

“Hello, do you have anyone on staff trained to do a nephrodesis reversal?”

“No, of course not.”

That stopped him for a moment. “Um, well, do you know which hospitals do?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

He dialed the last number. “Surgery please,” he said, trying for enthusiasm.

“Surgery.”

“Hello, could you please—how does one go about arranging to undo a nephrodesis?”

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have anyone on staff here trained to do a nephrodesis.”

“Oh. I see,” he said with disappointment. “Thank you.” He hung up. That was it. There were only three hospitals in the city.

It took a couple days to recover. He wasn’t used to being defeated at every turn. And it seemed to get harder and harder to pick himself up, so to speak, and resume the fight. Fight? Maybe resistance was accurate.

After lunch, a walkaround, and a nap, he closed the door again and opened his laptop. A few minutes later, he had a list of regional hospitals. He started dialing.

“Surgery please.”

“Surgery.”

“Hello, do you have anyone on staff trained to do a nephrodesis reversal?”

“No, sorry.”

“Okay, thank you.” He hung up and dialed the next number.

“Surgery, please.”

“Hello, is anyone in your department trained to do a nephrodesis reversal?”

“A what?”

“A nephrodesis reversal.”

“Oh, no, sorry.”

“I see. Do you know which hospitals do have—”

“I’m sorry, we don’t give out that information.”

“I see. Thanks anyway.”

Several calls later, he thought for a bit, then decided to take a different approach. He set his laptop aside and went back to the yellow pages.

“Haverton.”

“Oh—sorry—I thought this was the number for Total Health Clinic.”

“Yes, it is. Or rather, was. We are now The Haverton Center.”

“But you’re still a health clinic?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Okay, do you have anyone on staff trained to do a nephrodesis reversal?”

“You’ll need to call a hospital for that, sir.”

“But I’ve called all the hospitals in the area, and no one’s—”

“Oh, you’re not likely to find anyone in this state, sir.”

“Oh. Any idea which state—”

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t help you.”

Wednesday came, the day of his telephone appointment with the lawyer he’d called.

“Tawson, Schuler, Neder, and Burman.”

“Hello, this is Tom Wagner. Gregory Dupond is expecting my call?”

“Yes, one moment, please.”

The muzak came on. Oddly enough, he didn’t mind this time. He wondered if the television in his room—their room—he corrected himself, had music channels of any kind. He had yet to turn it on.

“Gregory Dupond speaking.”

“Hi, this is Tom Wagner. We spoke last week? Or the week before?” He couldn’t remember, exactly.

“Right. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was wondering—I’m in a situation—” Start at the beginning, he told himself. “I was at a bar last Fri—no, a week ago last—no—” He came to a full stop. Had it been a month already?

“Let’s say the exact timeline doesn’t matter for now,” Dupond said helpfully.

“Okay, good, I was in a bar and …” What followed was pretty much a repetition of his explanation to the police. Except that the last part was more tell than show.

“Let me get this straight,” Dupond said, intrigued. “You’re connected to some guy—you’re like his surrogate kidney?”

“Yeah.” That’s exactly what he was. A surrogate kidney.

“And you didn’t consent.”

“No. I did not consent.”

“And you have proof of that?”

Tom sighed. “What proof would I have? How can I prove that something did not occur?”

“Right,” Dupond agreed, “that’s tricky.”

“So?” Tom said after a moment.

“Well, it’s a bit of a—I’m not exactly sure how we could proceed,” Dupond replied. “Let me give it some thought, though. I’ll get back to you.”

“Okay, great!” Tom was—not overjoyed, but, truthfully, he’d expected Dupond to say he was too busy to take on a new case or something. He’d imagined having to spend weeks calling every lawyer in the country.

Inspired by that success, or, at least, that absence of failure, he resumed calls on the medical front the next day. He reached for the phone, then the phone book. Then put the phone book back into the drawer and reached for his laptop instead. He winced. Damn it! He gingerly opened his laptop and set it carefully on his chest.

After half an hour of googling, he had a list of out-of-state numbers. Halfway through dialing the first one, he stopped and hung up. Anders will know, he thought. Damn it, she’ll know even about the local calls he’d made. Probably. He rummaged in his laptop case and pulled out his cellphone. He redialed the first number in the list.

After half a dozen dead end calls, he finally made some headway.

“Metro Hospital.”

“Hello, could you please tell me, are there any surgeons at your hospital trained to do a nephrodesis reversal.”

There is a prolonged silence at the other end.

“You do realize that's an illegal procedure in this state?”

Tom was taken aback. “Um, no, sorry, I didn't. Sorry.” He hung up. That it would be illegal hadn’t occurred to him. Now he understood the awkward silences, the total lack of trained—okay, so he had to figure out in which states, if any, it was legal. Tomorrow. Shit. How can making a few fucking phone calls make me so fucking exhausted. He shut down and dozed off.

By the end of the week, he had made close to fifty calls. He dialed yet again, this number by heart.

“Smith, Watts, and Barrow.”

“Mr. Watts, please.”

“One moment.”

“Thanks.”

Tom broke into a sweat. He had a feeling this wouldn’t go well.

“Watts.”

“Mr. Watts, Tom here,” he said with energy he didn’t feel.

“Hello, Tom.” Definitely cool.

“I’m afraid my situation is turning out not to be as easy to resolve as I had anticipated and I was wondering—”

“Tom, you’ve been—”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I had Steve bring my laptop to me last week, and I assure you—”

“This is highly irregular.” Watts was on his feet.

“Yes, I understand, sir, and I’m sorry—”

“Sorry? You’ve been awol for three weeks, Tom.”

“Yes, but—”

“You have responsibilities, Tom. We have clients to answer to.”

“If I could just work from home for a little bit longer—”

Watts ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll have to—make adjustments.”

“Of course—”

“How much longer, Tom?”

“A week? Tops.”

“Fine. One week.”

“Thank you. Thank you, sir.” He hung up.

Meanwhile, Steve had played another game of golf. He switched to squash on the cold or rainy days. He tried rock climbing for the first time in his life. He went to Misters a few times, and picked up a few women. He also went to Dooleys and The Roar. He went out to lunch. And dinner. He took a drive up the coast.

Tom got over the indignity of having Carla have to cut his toenails—for some reason, he couldn’t scrunch up to reach his toes anymore—and continued trying to find a way out of his situation.

“Hello, I’m doing research for a course I’m taking—could you tell me—in which states is a nephrodesis reversal legal?”

“I’m sure you can find that information on the internet, sir. Access is available—”

“I have access, thanks.” He sighed, opened his laptop, and started googling. Odd, how difficult it was to find what he was looking for. It took over an hour.

“Surgery, please.”

“Dr. Gillers.” The man sat down as he picked up his phone, and started working his way through the many reports on his desk.

“Hello, my name is Tom Wagner. Could you please tell me if any surgeons on your staff are trained to do a nephrodesis reversal.

“Yes,” Dr. Gillers drew out the word.

“That's great—”

“But such a procedure would never pass Ethics Review. We could never actually perform a nephrodesis reversal.”

“Ethics review? But it is legal in your state, is it not?”

“Well, yes, but surely you're aware of the implications of such a procedure. Consequently, as I said, it would have to pass Ethics Review. And it is my belief that it would not.”

“I see. Thanks.” Tom hung up, and stared rather blankly at the connecting tube.

He was told essentially the same thing with his next three calls.