Chapter 17
Dr. Cans
“You can help me, right?”
It was such a stark contrast to how her week had gone that it took her a moment to adjust.
“I mean, that’s what they said when I first got here. They said they could help me. That’s why you’re here, right? Why they fired the other therapist and brought you in?”
Fired. Right. Dr. Cans felt no small measure of sympathy for Miguel. He still thought the company cared about him and that underperforming employees could just walk away. It was sweet. Like a kid who bought the story that their favorite pet had gone to live at a farm in the country. She kind of hated to burst that bubble.
“I hope I can help each of you,” she replied calmly. “That’s my goal.” She thought about correcting his assumption that she was a therapist but decided to let it go. It was an honest mistake on his part and a common one, too. She had two doctorates and a Psy.D. but sure, she was a therapist.
“That’s why I stayed, you know?” Miguel said. “Or, well, why I haven’t tried to break out. And why I’ve tried to be cooperative. The others? I don’t know what they’ve got, or even if they’ve got anything. But this - ,” he gestured towards his eyes, “has ruined my life.”
Dr. Cans was quiet, letting him speak. He was the first patient to do so and she didn’t want to spook whatever mojo was in the air causing it.
“It started slow at first, you know?” he said. “The doctors told me it was just a symptom of migraines.”
“Migraines are perfectly common after a brain injury of your kind,” Dr. Cans agreed.
“But there wasn’t any pain,” Miguel said. “At least not at first.”
“What did you notice first?” she asked, curious about the onset of his symptoms, one of the many details left out of all of the patient charts.
Miguel was quiet for a minute, thinking back. “The colors,” he finally said. “They were brighter. Sharper, somehow. At first, I thought it was just my eyes or migraines like the doctor said. But everything just kept getting brighter. And then,” he stopped and took a breath. “I don’t know how to really describe it.”
Dr. Cans nodded sympathetically at him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” she encouraged. “Just describe how you felt if you can’t describe anything else.”
He blew out the breath he had been holding and shook his head. “The colors…I don’t know. They started changing. I don’t even know what to call the colors I see now. I know I’ve never seen them before.”
“Can you give me an example?” Dr. Cans asked.
Miguel nodded. “I’m a trucker driver, right? So, colors are pretty important. All of a sudden, stop lights aren’t just red, yellow, and green anymore. They have different, I don’t know, levels maybe? Green isn’t just green but a thousand different shades of green. And something I think should be red definitely isn’t just red.” He shook his head in frustration before looking back to her. “Does that make any sense at all?”
It did, actually. It might not tell her exactly what he was seeing, or why he was seeing it, but it did tell her that his brain was allowing his eyes to see differently than they were supposed to.
His filter was off. It was classic RNB. But it didn’t matter if she got it if Miguel didn’t. It was her job to help him understand exactly what his brain was telling him. She needed to be honest with him, though. He was cooperating with them on the assumption that they would help him. He was trusting them. The least she could do was be as transparent as possible in her position.
“That actually helps me understand a great deal, Miguel. Thank you,” she said. “I think we told you the truth. I think we can help. But you need to understand what that means,” she said bluntly. “You need to understand that, while the company will help you understand what’s happening to you and will help you learn to manage it, they won’t do it for free.”
Miguel furrowed his brow and opened his mouth like he was about to ask a question but Dr. Cans cut him off. “They will expect you to use whatever abilities you hone in their service. Do you understand what that means?”
“I…don’t know that I do,” he said slowly. “Maybe you’d better spell it out for me.”
She nodded her head. “You are a participant in a very confidential research project,” she said. “You and your fellow patients are the first to be identified as probable candidates for Reflexive Neurological Bias.”
Miguel nodded again, this time in understanding. “Our last therapist said basically the same thing. That we all suffered the same kind of brain damage and developed this new disease because of it.”
“Well, that’s the gist anyway,” Dr. Cans replied. “The four of you did experience similar brain injuries that should have killed, or at least permanently impaired, you. And yet, you all walked out of the hospital and resumed your former lives. You each exhibit signs of a yet-unproven theoretical disorder known as Reflexive Neurological Bias, or RNB. We don’t know as much as we’d like about RNB,” Dr. Cans said, wincing at just how true that statement was, “but we do know the brain doesn’t actually heal from the trauma it experiences. Instead, it creates pathways and connections that didn’t exist before, and these new pathways allow your brain to function in a new and different way.”
It was pretty miraculous, really, when she said it aloud. Nervous tissue was one of the few living tissues in the human body that didn’t regenerate or heal. Skin tissue was constantly being replaced, new blood cells produced to replace old and worn out cells. Even bone tissue was in a constant state of creation and destruction. But not nervous tissue. Which was why these spontaneously created pathways in certain brain injury patients were remarkable. Not just because of the results the company felt certain it could produce but because it happened at all.
“But if my brain is working differently, why are my eyes affected?” he questioned.
“Because you don’t really see with your eyes,” Dr. Cans said. “What you think of as seeing is actually signals sent from your eyes to your brain, where that information is processed and sent back to your eyes as images. Your eyes take in the information but it’s your brain that makes sense of it,” Dr. Cans explained. “A large part of that sensory integration happens in the very center of the brain, around something called the thalamus.” She stopped. “Have you heard of the thalamus?”
Miguel shook his head.
“That’s okay,” she assured him. “All you need to know is that your thalamus acts as a kind of filter for the sensory information that your brain processes. We take in a lot of input,” she said, “more than our brains are really equipped to handle.”
“So this thalus thing keeps out the stuff our brain doesn’t want to deal with?” he asked.
“Sort of. The thalamus filters out the information our brain doesn’t need to know. Like you, for example,” she said. “Humans usually only see certain colors in the spectrum of light. That’s where we get our colors,” she explained. “It’s possible that the part of the filter in your brain that allows you to process color is off and that’s why you’re seeing colors that you can’t describe.”
Miguel sat back in his chair, and she didn’t interrupt his silence. They were almost out of time for the day and this had been her first real success here, but she didn’t want to push him too hard yet. It would be so much easier to unlock his abilities if it were his decision and not hers. The timer on her desk went off.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that I might need a couple of days to let this all settle. If that’s okay?” He asked that last part hesitantly, like he was afraid the guards would descend if he stepped out of line. Not that she blamed him. He wasn’t that far off.
“Of course,” she said kindly. “We can talk again at our next session if you’d like.”
He nodded, relieved. “Thank you,” he said. “I needed to know but it just seems so…”
“Overwhelming,” she supplied.
“Yes,” he said. “Overwhelming.”
There was a knock on her door and Barnes peeked his head in at her call. She looked back to Miguel.
“You did great today,” she assured him. “I have a few ideas I’d like to try next time. Things that I think will make this a little easier for you, if you’re open.”
She left the statement open-ended, like a question. He needed to feel in control of his situation, even if he wasn’t.
“I’d like that,” he agreed. He turned to go but then stopped and turned back towards her.
“Dr. Cans?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Chapter 18
Quincy
Quincy spun in her chair, bored. Had she actually asked for this, she wondered idly? Working the front desk at Dave’s clinic had seemed like a good idea at the time but today had been long. To be fair, it was usually a little more exciting, but the threatening snow had finally made its grand appearance. It was coming down hard, making it even more difficult for the underrepresented population they served to travel.
It was better than being stuck in the basement all day, she reminded herself, spinning towards the window and propping her feet up on the ledge, slouching down and tipping her head back so she could watch the snow fall. She had overheard a couple of patients talking about the weather just yesterday. It wasn’t unusual for light snow this time of year but it had been unseasonably cold apparently, and the weather report was calling for a decent accumulation.
She had lived in Chicago for a time, but not in the winter. As she watched the snow drift lazily to the ground, she wondered if this was the first snowfall she’d ever seen or just the first she remembered. It was beautiful, regardless, and she felt her mind drift to the conversation she’d had with Logan last night after supper. She had been trying to shove it to the back of her mind all day but alas, the electric guitars screaming at the base of her skull took up too much space and energy to keep anything else there for long. So she let it play back, looking for an angle she could work with.
“Keep your guard up,” Logan instructed, repositioning her left arm when it slipped down below her ear. “Your head and neck are your weakest areas.”
“Yes drill sergeant,” she snapped out, wishing she could rest her arm for just a few seconds but refusing to give Logan the satisfaction.
He grinned. “I know it hurts. But it will hurt a lot more when someone drills you in the side of the face.”
She supposed he was probably right. She had already absorbed a couple of blows that had been aimed at the left side of her head and she’d managed to keep her feet, so it must work.
“Remember, anyone who attacks you will most likely be bigger and stronger than you are,” Logan went on, back to business. “Your best bet is to always go low.”
Quincy stepped back so Logan could demonstrate. They’d determined a while back that she tended to be able to mimic physical information better when she could see it.
“Swing at me,” Logan commanded. Quincy stepped forward and threw a straight jab at Logan’s face. Keeping his guard arm up, he dropped low, bending his knees into a crouch in order to get below her much shorter stature. Quincy’s momentum carried her over and past him and Logan rose, driving his fist straight up and into her abdomen. Or what would have been her abdomen if Logan hadn’t pulled back at the last second. It had still been enough for Quincy to see.
“Going low puts you closer to your center of gravity and gives you more explosive power as you come back up. Plus, it puts your opponent in the position of having to chase you. More often than not, they’ll overextend and their momentum, combined with yours, can be enough to incapacitate them.”
Quincy nodded. That made sense. And she needed every advantage she could get. Like everything else, all she needed was to see it done once and she could use it. The skills were there; she just needed to build the muscle to use them.
“Want to go again?” he asked, but Quincy shook her head. They’d been going at it for over an hour and she was ready for a break. She dropped to her knees and then lay back, sprawling on the concrete floor beneath her. Maybe tomorrow she could make a snow angel, she thought, moving her arms and legs across the concrete in a parody of angel wings. Logan dropped beside her.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Just thinking.”
They lay in silence for a minute before Quincy decided to go ahead and ruin it.
“Do you ever think about them?” she asked.
To his credit, Logan didn’t miss a beat.
“I think about them every day,” he said.
“What do you think is happening to them?” She continued to look straight up. It was too dark in here to see the ceiling very clearly so instead, she imagined stars shining overhead and a wide open space around them.
Logan was quiet for a minute but then said, “I think they’re surrounded by doctors and scientists and people committed to doing nothing but poking and prodding them to find out how they work.”
A laugh escaped from deep in Quincy’s chest but it was short and bitter.
“Well don’t sugarcoat it for me.”
Logan looked over at her. “Did you want me to?”
Quincy shrugged. “No. Maybe.” She thought it over. “I don’t know.”
“The company prefers them alive. That much we do know,” Logan said. “RNB is so new and the sample size is so small, they’ll want to preserve everyone they can get.”
Quincy nodded. She’d assumed the same thing but still, knowing they were under the control of the company, a fate she had very nearly suffered herself, was difficult.
“They’re why I decided to come with you,” she said. “Back on the train? You said I could take all of this - ” she gestured towards herself, “and do some good with it. Help others like me.”
Logan thought that over. “That’s what did it?” he finally asked. “So, telling you that you weren’t alone anymore and that I wanted you to live did what exactly?”
She shrugged, still looking up at her imaginary night sky. “Nothing.”
“I see. But the thought of chasing down the company and setting the hostages free? That got you going?”
“Yep.”
“Adrenaline junkie.”
Quincy giggled and the sound opened a flood gate of laughter that left them both trying to catch their breath.
Once she could breathe again, she asked what she was really wondering.
“Logan?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you even know where to start looking?”
Logan sighed deeply. “We have no idea. The company managed to beat us to every patient we knew of. Except for you, of course.”
Quincy thought that over. “You knew they would be coming for me too,” she finally said. “Why didn’t you just sit on me? Watch and wait for them to grab me and then follow us back to their base.”
Logan looked over. “Are you honestly annoyed with me for not dangling you as bait?” he asked, incredulous. “I’m not an ‘ends justifies the means’ kind of guy. I won’t apologize for that.”
“You’re military,” she said. “You know tactics and strategy. You’ve used people before to achieve a goal.”
He shrugged her off. “They were already on the team. They knew what they signed up for. You didn’t.”
“I do now.”
Quincy let that hang between them. It was true. They might not know where the company was or where to even start looking, but they did know what the company wanted. And they had the means to offer it to them.
“No.”
It was said quietly but firmly.
“No?” Quincy repeated. “Just like that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Just like that.”
She lay beside him for another minute, letting the silence echo around them. It wasn’t the comfortable silence she was used to between them. It was tense and angry and … fearful.
S
he didn’t care if he was scared. Didn’t care if he was just trying to protect her. She wouldn’t be controlled. Not by the company, not by Logan. Not by anything.
Not even the voice inside her own head.
Quincy rolled to her feet and walked away.
Logan didn’t move. “Where are you going?” he called after her, the tension in his voice seeping into the air between them.
“Back to my cell,” she shot back without turning around. “I’m done with you for tonight.”
It had been the worst fight they’d had. No one had yelled or raised their voices. Nothing was said that couldn’t be taken back. But it still hurt. She had lain on her mattress all night, not even bothering to pretend to sleep. She could see the future stretching out in front of her - isolated, confined to the basement, the clinic, and whatever else might be within a half mile radius of her prison. There would be no mission. No one to save.
If there was no purpose, why was she even here? Dave said she was free to go whenever she wanted, but that was a lie. Logan would never allow it. He was so wrapped up in protecting her, saving her when he couldn’t save Jones, that he was going to suffocate her.
The voice had chosen that moment to chime in and she’d listened for the rest of the night as it painted a bleak, lonely vision of her future, stretching out into nothing but boredom and pain and uselessness.
Morning had been a blessing. At least she had somewhere to go, a job that needed doing. Even if the clinic had turned out to be dead because of the snow, it was still a reason to get up. A reason to ignore that crushing voice in her head for just one more day.
But it wasn’t enough. Knowing there were others like her under the company’s thumb while she sat at a desk in relative freedom and safety was unacceptable. Logan wasn’t wrong, though. They had no idea where to start looking. Dave had never met with anyone other than a representative of the company, an underling paid to be a go-between so those in actual authority could never be implicated.
Burning Bridges (Shattered Highways Book 2) Page 12