Fireflies by David Morrell Page A

gather you’re having some reservations about your son’s treatment.”
    “Fears.”
    “That’s understandable.” The second physician cleared his throat, obviously hoping to avoid an awkward conversation in public.
    “You’re following the procedure you explained to me. I understood the logic of that treatment. I agreed,” David said.
    “Well, good,” the first physician said. “Then we don’t have a problem.”
    “No,” David said. “Everything’s changed now.”
    “Changed? Because he feels weak? But we told you that would happen.”
    David’s heart kept pounding. “Yes, but something else is going to happen. All the early symptoms are there, but you don’t know it yet … because you’re not expecting it, so you’re not”—his lungs heaved—“you’re not interpreting the symptoms—”
    “I beg your pardon?” The second physician narrowed his eyes. “I’m not interpreting … ?”
    “The symptoms the way you would if you knew what was going to happen.”
    “Going to happen?” The first physician frowned at his colleague.
    The parents of other patients had begun to gather and listen.
    “Can we go somewhere else to have this talk?” the second physician said.
    “As long as we get this settled.”
    “There’s a conference room down the hall.”

5

    They shut the door to the narrow room that had a black-board upon which doctors customarily drew diagrams for parents confused about the treatment their child would receive. Both physicians studied David as if they wished they weren’t alone with him.
    “Now we realize you’re under stress,” the first physician said. “You’re worried about your son. All perfectly natural. But what exactly do you think is—?”
    “Going to happen?” David’s legs felt weak. He gripped a chair. “Septic shock.”
    The second physician narrowed his eyes. “Where’d you hear that term? Something you read? You’ve been doing, let’s call it, well-intended but uninformed research, and it makes you nervous?”
    “Never mind how I know. I’m absolutely certain—”
    “Now listen carefully,” the first physician said. “Whatever books you’ve been reading, whatever outdated texts have made you afraid, yes, it’s true there’s always a danger of septic shock. We’ve already warned you. When a patient’s blood counts are low, there’s a risk of infection. That’s why we take extreme precautions to prevent—”
    “No, you listen carefully.” Though the room stayed perfectly still, David’s mind revolved. “Your precautions are fine. There’s nothing wrong with the treatment you’re giving him. But Matthew will get septic shock. I can’t explain why, but tomorrow afternoon, he’ll become infected. His blood pressure will drop and …”
    “What makes you so sure?”
    “You wouldn’t believe me! Just give him antibiotics now! ”
    The first physician edged toward the phone.
    The second physician raised his hands in a placating gesture. “‘Antibiotics’ is a general description of a wide variety of treatment.”
    “I understand that. Different antibiotics have applications to different infections.”
    The first physician picked up the phone.
    David’s chest felt squeezed. “Stop. Give me a chance.”
    The first physician touched numbers on the phone.
    “Please!”
    The first physician hesitated.
    “You need to know the specific infection so you can choose the specific antibiotic to use to attack it. So now I’m telling you.”
    As David spoke the words that to anyone but a doctor would have been gibberish … as he recalled the words he’d memorized from the microbiology report in his dream … words that in his present timestream would have been impossible for him to know, let alone pronounce … he realized that he wasn’t crazy. His dying vision was fact. He had indeed come back.
    For what he told the physicians, the words like gravel in his mouth, was …
    “What’ll give Matthew septic shock? Streptococcus mitis.