Going Bovine by Libba Bray Page A

me?”
    Yes, I can hear you. Can you hear me, because I was really fucking serious about that instrument of torture disguised as a penlight that for some reason you seem to find it amusing to shine directly into my pupils. I’m pretty sure they prosecute people as war criminals for this kind of shit.
    The dulcet tones of Dr. Asshole float back to my ears. “If you hear me, Cameron, just make a sound.”
    Hello! Are you not listening? I’ve been talking.
    Haven’t I?
    “If you don’t want to speak you can squeeze my hand or nod if you understand.”
    I nod and my brain throbs in my head.
    “Good. Very good, Cameron.” The light stops, thank God, and I’m able to drift in and out, catching snippets of conversation between Dr. Asshole and my ’rents.
    “We’re giving him … for discomfort …”
    I’m floating in space. It’s nice here. A comet zooms past. A star. The Buddha Cow twirls by on her lotus-flower hamburger patty. She raises a hoof in Zen salute. I’ve been blessed by the Cow. Amen.
    “We’d like your permission to try something experimental, something that in trials has had some success with destroying the prions that attack the brain and may slow the progression of the disease.”
    Sounds good to me, Doc. Let’s kick some serious prion ass. Any time is good. And a little more morphine wouldn’t suck. Oooh, I just flew through the Milky Way. Awesome.
    “… some side effects …”
    “I don’t know. …” It’s Mom’s voice.
    Something’s pulsing up ahead. Huh. What is that thing? It’s round and dark.
    “… twice a day …”
    “… doesn’t even know we’re here …” Dad’s voice.
    The Buddha Cow zips on and disappears into the big black hole up ahead. Me no likee this. Time to reverse thrusts, Captain.
    “… Just sign here and we can get started. …”
    Sign what? Hey. I hit reverse. How come that hole’s getting closer? No fair. Mom? Dad? Dr. Asshole? Somebody? Pull me back. I’m getting too close to this thing for comfort, man. Seriously. I’m nodding. Anybody out there see me nodding? Anybody out there? Anybody?
    DAY THREE
    I open my eyes. On the wall opposite me is a framed picture of an angel. St. Jude’s. Right. I’m in the hospital.
    A lady in pink scrubs is beside me, fiddling with a bag on an IV pole. She’s solidly built, like she could kick my ass if she wanted, and her skin’s the color of coffee without a trace of milk. She wears a lanyard around her neck. A bevy of angel pins have been tacked to it. The lanyard holds her hospital ID, which reads GLORY BEAUVAIS.
    “You wakin’ up?” she asks me. She’s got a strong accent.
    “Yeah,” I croak. My voice is scratchy.
    “Good, I need to get your vitals.” Glory’s not big on the chitchat and endearments, it seems. She puts the blood pressure cuff around my arm, pumps it up and watches the meter ticking off numbers. When she’s satisfied, she tears the cuff off in a loud rip of Velcro. “One twenty over seventy. Good. Little bit of fever. I’ll tell the doctor, see if we can get you somet’in for it. You in pain?”
    Oh goody. The candy store is open. “Yes,” I gasp. “A lot of pain.”
    Glory purses her lips, which are unadorned by any lipstick at all. “I’ll put in an order for some aspirin.”
    “I think I need more than that,” I say.
    She doesn’t budge. “I’ll tell the doctor. Your breakfast will be here soon.”
    DAY FOUR
    The old geezer across the hall coughs all the time. I started counting them. Twenty-eight in one thirty-minute period. To drown out the sound, I’ve taken to watching soaps. It doesn’t really work, but now I’m captivated by a storyline about this woman and her evil twin who, for some reason I can’t figure out, looks nothing like her. Old sick guy is coughing up a lung over there.
    God, if you exist, can you take him instead of me?
    DAY FIVE
    It’s official. I hate oatmeal. Hospital oatmeal is gray with the consistency of glue. You can pour two packets