Nerve Damage by Peter Abrahams Page B

weighed,” Netty said.
    Roy stripped down to his boxers, stood on the scale. Netty tapped at the weights.
    â€œOne seventy…” She peered at the numbers. “Is that a four or a five?”
    â€œFive,” said Roy. “One seventy-five on the nose.”
    Netty wrote the number on the chart, in a box next to yesterday’s box—173 and a half—and the box from the day before that—172. Roy waited for her to make some comment, but she did not.
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    Roy had squeezed the last drops from the IV bag and was sitting back down, watching the water pulse and shine in the fountain, when Dr. Chu entered.
    â€œAh,” he said. “Seeing with artist’s eyes.”
    â€œI don’t know about that,” Roy said. “Have you got the lab report?”
    â€œLab report?”
    â€œOn the blood Netty’s been drawing.”
    Dr. Chu opened a folder. “Two days’ results,” he said.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThe numbers are within the expected range.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œMean?” said Dr. Chu. “It means that the statistical norms have not been exceeded.”
    â€œNorms?” Roy said, thinking if his blood was normal, then maybe he was already on the way back to his old self.
    â€œTypical results for stage three disease of sarcomatous cell type,” said Dr. Chu.
    â€œAre you saying that the treatment is working or not?” Roy said.
    â€œOh, the treatment,” said Dr. Chu. “Much too early to see any effects of the treatment. We are now only trying to establish a baseline.”
    â€œBut I feel better,” Roy said. “The cough, the breathing, everything.”
    â€œExcellent,” said Dr. Chu.
    â€œI’ve put on weight.”
    â€œExcellent.”
    â€œTake a look at the chart.”
    Dr. Chu looked at the chart. “Four pounds!” he said. “And that’s with the cast probably getting lighter as it dries out and starts crumbling away.”
    Roy had forgotten to factor in the cast, meaning his real weight was less than he’d thought. He almost asked Dr. Chu for an estimate of the cast’s weight, but stopped himself.
    â€œAny other questions?” said Dr. Chu.
    â€œYes,” Roy said. “Can I have one more treatment?”
    â€œCertainly,” said Dr. Chu. “Several more cycles, the next one in twenty-one days.”
    â€œI meant tomorrow,” Roy said. “One more hit before I go.”
    â€œOne more hit?”
    â€œOf the cocktail,” Roy said. “The antigens and the angio thing.”
    â€œOh, we couldn’t do that,” said Dr. Chu.
    â€œBut I’m sure I can tolerate it,” Roy said. He sat up straighter.
    â€œI have little doubt,” said Dr. Chu. “But think what would happen.”
    â€œWhat would happen?” Roy said.
    â€œThe statistical integrity of the whole study.” Dr. Chu made an explosive sound, spread his hands like a bomb going off.
    â€œWhat if a fourth treatment made all the difference?” Roy said.
    â€œI have no reason to suspect that is the case,” said Dr. Chu.
    â€œBut what if it was?”
    Dr. Chu nodded, as though Roy had made a good point. “That would come under the purview of another study,” he said.
    The fountain gurgled in the background.
    â€œMaybe I could drop out of the study,” Roy said.
    â€œDrop out?”
    â€œAnd just continue with the treatment,” Roy said. “A kind of study of one.”
    â€œI am sorry,” said Dr. Chu.
    Roy didn’t want to leave the room—had the strong feeling that nothing could kill him as long as he was connected to that IV bag—but what more could he say?
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    He sat outside in the pickup, the list of the remaining Thomas and T. Parishes and all the Paul and P. Habibs in his hand. So hard, to make this little correction. And when he found the Hobbes Institute and had his piece of paper