Peering through the operating microscope, every movement of Castro’s fingers was reduced to micrometer-fine motion that allowed her to rejoin the neurilemmal sheaths. Meanwhile the surgical resident applied neurotrophic factor/stem-cell mixture and nerve glue each step of the way.
Castro smiled in satisfaction then turned to the intense young man standing beside her.
“Okay, Petrie, now what?”
“Restoration of vertebral integrity.”
“That’s right! Hicks, how would you do that?”
“Synthetic bone graft and bone glue.”
“Good! Knowlton, what’s the risk?”
“Rejection of stem cell graft or adverse reaction to injected nanos.”
“If none of that happens, Hidalgo, what next?”
“Continual intense neuromuscular stimulation by both electrical pulsation and laser, and then physical therapy after primary nerve regeneration and wound closure. His limbs will need frequent motion, and his skin needs to be protected from pressure sores while recovery takes place. At the same time his neck must remain immobilized, and unwanted calcification in the wound area must be prevented from disrupting the regeneration process.”
“And…?”
Castro stared, remembering herself as a young medical student answering questions from an older doctor in a similar situation.
Hidalgo’s manner resembles that doctor’s. Could it be?
“His head and neck will need to remain in a halo unit until stability of the cervical spine is confirmed.”
Tony mentally pictured the unit they called the “crown of thorns,” which would keep Sammy’s head from a damaging involuntary muscle spasm.
Then Baker jumped in.
“What’s the anticipated recovery time?”
The neurosurgery resident added his two cents, practicing his attending’s voice.
Won’t be fun unless I can pimp the med students with my questions.
“About one month.”
“Before the Joshua Protocol and the Reeve Procedure, what was the recovery time?”
The four students paused for a moment, watching the still-unconscious boy lying in his metal cocoon.
Tony whispered his answer.
“Never.”
Castro let the surgical resident do the wound closures. Then an orderly wheeled the surgery cart into recovery, the patient even more firmly restrained.
She summoned Tony outside the OR.
“Hidalgo, are you by any chance related to a Dr. Galen?”
“Robert Galen?”
“Yes.”
“He’s my guardian, Dr. Castro. I call him Tio. He and his two friends, my Tio Edison and Tia Nancy, adopted my sister and brother and me. We all live at a place we call Safehaven, in Pennsylvania.”
“Would you give him my best? I was a student of his … a long time ago.”
“You all did a great job, guys!
Jerry Fromm was one happy resident. His team had done well, and in doing so reflected on his ability to supervise. No doubt the other residents would recognize him as a good teacher.
He also knew he was lucky. He had heard the nurses gossiping about this group—they called the kids “the A-Team.”
“How’s it going, kiddo?”
“I can feel stuff now, Dr. Hicks.”
“That’s great, Sammy!”
“Uh ... Dr. Hicks, is Dr. Petrie your squeeze?”
She grinned at him and nodded.
“Good, I like him. He looks and talks funny.”
“What about Dr. Hidalgo and Dr. Knowlton?”
“Who’s been talking to you, kid?”
“Well, what about them?”
“Yeah, they’re an item. Just don’t tell them I said that, and don’t ask Dr. Petrie what you asked me.”
“I already did.”
“What did he say?”
Sammy grinned back at her.
Judy wanted to kiss his forehead but didn’t; she gave him a thumbs-up instead.
“Next time you see me, Dr. Hicks, I’ll give you a thumbs-up, too!”
“It’s a deal!”
Galen walked over to the calendar on his bedroom wall and crossed off another day. He looked at the date circled in red: May 9, 2025, the day Tonio would graduate from medical school, less than four weeks away.
He shook his head as he looked in the mirror and saw the unruly gray-white hair flowing over his ears. He remembered the sideburns he had grown over 50 years before, all the rage in the late ’70s of the last century. His beloved Cathy liked to run her fingers through them and call him her “mutton-chop.”
His eyes started to mist as he remembered his second wife. No, he couldn’t let the brooding despair overtake him again. He was on the wrong side of 85. He was too old to cry in his beer of memories.
He felt totally drained that night as he changed into his pajamas, washed his face to remove the residue of dried tears, and slowly climbed into bed. It was only 9 p.m.
Edison and Nancy were still watching a History Channel program. They weren’t surprised when he had gotten up and said he was going to bed early. The strain of the impending graduation was beginning to tell on the old man.
He took off his eyeglasses, set them on the bedside table, and turned off the lamp. He lay back on the old foam pillow he and his beloved first wife Leni had slept on and stared at the blur of the darkened ceiling. His eyelids fluttered as he felt the tension of the day leaving...
He was walking on the hard dirt road, the dust of passing chariots raising clouds that obscured the blue Mediterranean sky. The highway marker pointed toward the distant temple and he knew he would soon arrive at his destination: Eleusis.
He turned to the young boy walking beside him and raised his walking stick.
“There, do you see it?”
“Yes, Tio.”
They walked on. The nearer they came to the temple the older the boy became. Once no higher than the old man’s chest, by the time they reached the marble steps he now towered above his guardian in the full bloom of young manhood.
“Tio, is this our destination?”
“Yes, boy, and your destiny. Come; the son of Apollo awaits us.”
They climbed the steps, the boy with vigor, the old man with increasing difficulty. Soon they passed between the high Doric columns to enter the darkened portal.
“Is that you, Galen?”
The voice boomed from the main altar.
“Yes, Aesclepius.”
“Come forward and bring the boy with you.”
“Tio, I am afraid.”
“As was I, Antonio, and as once was my mentor, Corrado Agnelli.”
“Galen, prepare the boy.”
The bearded god raised a golden shaft entwined by a single serpent.
Simultaneously Galen