Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
That thought hits like cold water. It clears the static.
I go to my office, wake the monitor, and start searching. Everything says exactly what I expect it to—counseling required, insurance headaches, slow turnarounds. I grind my teeth and pick up my phone.
The concierge line answers on the second ring.
“Thank you for calling Rosen Genetic Labs,” a cheery voice says. “How can I make you smile today?”
For real?
This is what they tell her to say when they’re in the business of giving people bad news?
Of course, they give a lot of good news too, and I’m hoping Daniela will get some.
“You can get me a private appointment today.”
“Name, please?”
“Hawk Bellamy.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have—”
“Hold up. I thought you wanted to make me smile.”
“Mr. Bellamy, I—”
“I need a private appointment today,” I interrupt. “Genetic testing. Huntington’s. Blood and saliva. CLIA-certified lab, stat intake. I’ll pay, and then I’ll pay again.”
“Mr. Bellamy,” she says. “We can inquire with our partners. There are counseling requirements—pre-test, and sometimes post-test—depending on clinic protocol.”
“I know the protocols,” I say. “I’m not trying to bulldoze them. I’m asking you to book them. Today.”
Keys click. “We have a neurogenetics partner in Dallas. They can do a private appointment with a counselor on site. If we courier the samples immediately, the lab can begin prep this afternoon.”
“What about Austin?”
“Our Austin facility is booked today.”
“I’ve got money to spend, honey. Please check again.”
More tapping on keys. Then a sigh. “I can get you in. But you’ll have to be here by two p.m.”
“Perfect. Book it.”
“All right. Name of the patient, please?”
“Daniela Agudelo?”
“Your wife?”
“Uh…yes.”
“All right. I’ll notify the facility right away.” She rattles off the address.
“Thank you. How fast for preliminary?”
“Preliminary data may be available by evening,” she says, “with the understanding that only a full analysis is definitive.”
“Book it,” I say. “I’ll cover everything. I’ll also make a significant donation to the lab’s research arm, and I want that to be received without raising flags. Discretion matters.”
“Understood. I’ll text a private entry code and parking instructions.”
We go through the legalese that matters. Consent must be the patient’s, not mine. Counseling is not optional. Results will be delivered in a manner agreed upon in writing.
I give my details and hang up with an appointment on my calendar and a PDF of pre-test materials in my inbox.
My hands are still on the desk when the stupidity of relief hits me. I laugh once—too loud in the quiet of my office—and then rub my eyes. The line between fixing and controlling is slim. This falls on the right side of it only if I mean what I told myself I mean. That it’s her choice, not mine. The appointment is a door. I hand her the key and step back.
For years I tied my existence to the act of fixing. You needed the guy who would answer at three a.m., drive without headlights, tell you when to duck and when to stand. I stepped into that shape so hard it fused with my bones. It served me until it didn’t. It kept me from feeling like the kid in Dad’s office falling to the floor while trying to protect a friend.
A friend who was more of a father to me than that stranger who pulled the trigger.
Now?
What is fixing, really?
Fixing doesn’t really fix anything. It just rearranges the cracks into a pattern we can live with.
What if I can’t fix Daniela? What if she does carry the gene?
I can still do something. I can love her. Take care of her.
I can talk to Raven about adding Huntington’s research to her Raven’s Wings foundation.
My phone vibrates again. My heart leaps.
Maybe it’s from Daniela. Or more from Raven.
Instead it’s a bland automated message from the clinic with a secure link.
I pace. I look at the time. Two p.m. gnaws at me. Plenty of time to ruin things by thinking. I consider the Nintendo again and reject it. I don’t deserve a break right now.
I check the burner phone. Still dead-eyed blank. Good. Reyes bought the photos. Maybe I can now have six hours where I get to be a human man again and take care of the woman I love.
Time to text Daniela.
I’ve got a medical appointment reserved at 2 in Austin. It’s for you. It’s elective. If you say no, we cancel and go get something to eat. If you say yes, I drive and keep my mouth shut until you want it open. Your call.
I stare at the screen. I put the phone face down on the desk. I pick it up again.
Dots. No dots. Dots. Disappear.
Finally—
What kind of appointment?
Genetic testing. HD. Counselor on site. Private entry, no waiting room hell. No pressure.
The dots again…
Don’t book things for me without asking.
You’re right. I’m sorry. I wanted the option. That’s all.
Another pause.
A long one.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
And then—
Pick me up at 1:15. Don’t be late.