Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            I’m stimulating Guy’s dorsal premotor cortex—why the hell is he not improving—?

            Suddenly, the numbers start to change. Accuracy skyrockets from 83 percent to 94. Median reaction times decrease by tens of milliseconds. The new values oscillate, and then keep steady. I swear the entire room sighs in relief in unison.

            “Sweet,” someone murmurs.

            “Sweet?” Lamar asks. “That’s epic.”

            I turn to grin at Levi and find him already staring at me with a happy, undecipherable expression. This, at least, is going great. The rest of my life’s a shitshow, but this is working. We made something good, and useful, and just plain badass.

            I told you, didn’t I? What’s reliable, and trustworthy, and never, ever abandoned Dr. Curie? Science. Science is where it’s at.

            Until it’s not.

            I’m the first to realize something’s wrong. Most of the engineers are talking among one another, and Levi’s eyes are still clinging to me with that curious, earnest expression. But both the values and the monitors are in my line of sight, so I notice the numbers changing to values we’ve never before seen. And the twitchy way Guy’s elbow is jerking.

            “What’s—” I point at it. Levi immediately turns. “Is he okay?”

            “The arm?” Levi’s brows knit. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

            “It’s similar to what would happen if we stimulated his motor cortex, but we definitely aren’t— Whoa.” The twitches get significantly larger. Guy’s entire body starts shaking.

            Levi turns on the mic. “Guy. Everything okay in there?”

            No answer.

            “Guy? Can you hear me?”

            Silence. And Levi’s deepening frown.

            “Guy, do you—”

            Guy falls out of his chair with a loud thud, his body at once rigid and slack. The control room bursts into chaos—everyone stands, half a dozen chairs scraping against the floor.

            “Stop the protocol!” Levi yells, and a second later he’s out of the room and into the lab. I see him appear on the monitor and kneel next to Guy’s spasming body, taking him into his arms. He turns him to the side and clears the floor of nearby objects.

            A seizure. Guy’s having a seizure.

            Other people barge into the room—NASA physicians, engineers—and ask Levi questions about the stimulation protocol. He answers as best as he can, still holding Guy in his arms as the doctors work around them.

            It’s because of Penny. Levi knows what to do because of Penny.

            There’s mayhem everywhere. People running in the hallways, in and out of the control room, screaming, swearing, asking questions without replies. Some are directed at me, but I cannot answer, cannot do anything but stare at Guy’s face, at the way Levi is cradling him. I collapse back in my chair. After a minute or an hour, my eyes drift away.

            The helmet is on the floor, rolled to the farthest corner of the room.



* * *



            • • •

            “—IS KOWALSKY?”

            “He was driven to the hospital.”

            “—going to be okay?”

            “Yeah, he regained consciousness. It’s just a checkup, but—”

            “—they gave him a fucking seizure, what is—”

            “What a disaster—”

            “—the end of BLINK, for sure. God, the incompetence.”

            I’m a fortress. I’m impenetrable. I’m not even here. I don’t look at anyone. I try my best not to listen as I walk to Boris’s office after he hissed at me to be there stat. It was four and a half minutes ago. I should hurry.

            I knock when I arrive, but enter before being invited to come in. Levi’s already inside, staring at the pretty green of the Space Center outside the square window. I ignore him. Even when I feel his eyes on me, the prickle of a glance asking for a response, I ignore him.