“Imagine armed drones controlled by unreliable software. A click of the mouse and you blow up the wrong person’s house.”

“I don’t have to imagine it,” I reply. “I’m afraid it’s happened.”

“Or how about financial misinformation and manipulation, something far worse than a Ponzi scheme? Think about all those online transactions and digital reads of what you have in your bank accounts. You believe you have a certain amount of cash, assets or debt because it says so right there on your computer screen or in your quarterly report that was generated by software. What if this software creates data that accounts for every penny but in fact it’s false? What if it’s a front for fraud? Then you have data fiction.”

“And right now there’s a case in federal court involving that.” I’m walking slowly and uphill again. “Apparently Jill Donoghue has something to do with it. Benton might have something to do with it too.”

“Do you need to stop for a minute, Aunt Kay?” Lucy pauses to wait up for me.

“We need to work on what you call me. You can’t keep calling me Aunt Kay.”

“Then what?”

“Kay.”

“Feels strange.”

“Doctor Scarpetta. Chief. Hey you. Something besides Aunt Kay. You’re not a kid. Both of us are adults.”

“You seem to be hurting a lot,” Lucy says. “We need to get you someplace where you can sit down.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m all right.”

“You’re hurting. You’re not all right.”

“Sorry I’m so damn slow.”

The pain in my leg is a radiating throb that I’ve gotten used to for the most part. Each week I’m better but I can’t move fast. Stairs are difficult. Standing on the hard tile in the autopsy room hours on end is miserable. But vigorous activity such as trudging uphill in extreme heat and humidity would be considered off-limits so soon. I’m not supposed to get my blood pressure up.

When I do I’m reminded that bone is living tissue, and the longest heaviest bone in the human body is the femur. It has two super-nerves, the femoral and the sciatic, that run from the lower back to the knee like high-speed trains carrying pain along their tracks. I stop walking for a moment and rub my thigh, gently massaging the muscles.

“You should use a cane,” Lucy says.

“God no.”

“I’m serious.” She glances at me, at my leg as I resume walking stiffly. “You’re at a disadvantage. You can’t outrun anyone and at least if you had a sturdy walking stick, a cane, you could use it as a weapon.”

“That sounds like the logic of a seven-year-old, like something Desi would say.”

“Looking so obviously wounded and vulnerable makes you an easy target. Bad people smell your weakness like a shark smells blood. Metaphorically it’s the wrong message.”