Then the man's hand rises from the gurney. He grabs her sleeve, tugging with more strength than a man in his condition should have.
"No transplant," he says.
No, don't do this to me, thinks the doctor. The orderlies hesitate. "Sir, it's a routine operation."
"He doesn't want a transplant," says the boy.
"You brought him in from God-knows-where with an underage pilot to save his life, and he won't let us do it? We have an entire tissue locker full of healthy young hearts—"
"No transplant!" says the man.
"It's . . . uh . . . against his religion," says the girl.
"Tell you what," says the boy. "Why don't you do whatever they did before you had a tissue locker full of healthy young hearts."
The doctor sighs. At least she's still close enough to medical school to remember what that is. "It drastically lowers his chances of survival—you know that, don't you?"
"He knows."
She gives the man a moment more to change his mind, then gives up. The orderlies and other staff rush the man back toward the ER, and the two kids follow.
Once they're gone, she takes a moment to catch her breath. Someone grabs her arm, and she turns to see the young pilot, who had been silent through all of it. The look on his face is pleading, yet determined. She thinks she knows what it's about. She glances at the helicopter, then at the kid. "Take it up with the FAA," she says. "If he lives, I'm sure you'll be off the hook. They might even call you a hero."
"I need you to call the Juvey-cops," he says, his grip getting a little stronger.
"Excuse me?"
"Those two are runaway Unwinds. As soon as the old man is admitted, they'll try to sneak away. Don't let them. Call the Juvey-cops now!"
She pulls out of his grip. "All right. Fine. I'll see what I can do."
"And when they come," he says, "make sure they talk to me first."
She turns from him and heads back into the hospital, pulling out her cell phone on the way. If he wants the Juvey-cops, fine, he'll get them. The sooner they come, the sooner this whole thing can fall into the category of "not my problem."
48 Risa
Juvey-cops always look the same. They look tired, they look angry—they look a lot like the Unwinds they capture. The cop who now guards Risa and Connor is no exception. He sits blocking the door of the doctor's office they're being held in, with two more guards on the other side of the door just in case. He's content to stay silent, while another cop questions Roland in an adjacent room. Risa doesn't even want to guess at the topics of conversation in there.
"The man we brought in," Risa says. "How is he?"
"Don't know," says the cop. "You know hospitals—they only tell those things to next of kin, and I guess that's not you."
Risa won't dignify that with a response. She hates this Juvey-cop instinctively, just because of who he is, and what he represents.
"Nice socks," Connor says.
The cop does not glance down at his socks. No show of weakness here. "Nice ears," he says to Connor. "Mind if I try them on sometime?"
The way Risa sees it, there are two types of people who become Juvey-cops. Type one: bullies who want to spend their lives reliving their glory days of high school bullying. Type two: the former victims of type ones, who see every Unwind as the kid who tormented them all those years ago. Type twos are endlessly shoveling vengeance into a pit that will never be full. Amazing that the bullies and victims can now work together to bring misery to others.
When Connor arrives at the scene, his mind keeps trying to reject what his eyes are telling him. He stares, part of him hoping the vision will go away. It's like the aftermath of some natural disaster. Broken bits of metal, glass, and wood are everywhere. Pages torn from books flutter past smashed electronics. Bonfires burn, and kids hurl in more wreckage to feed the flames.
"My God!"
There's a group of jeering kids near the helicopter, gathered like a rugby scrum, kicking something in the center. Then Connor realizes it's not something, it's someone. He races in, pulling the kids apart. The kids who know Connor immediately back off, and the others follow suit. The man on the ground is battered and bloody. It's Cleaver. Connor kneels down and props up his head.
"It's okay. You're going to be okay." But even as he says it, Connor knows it's not true: He's been beaten to a pulp.