He offered a gentle smile. “It’s not all bad. We did lose all the remaining samples of the original drug, except, I guess, for the one you have, but the university took over everything while I was gone. They’ve resynthesized the ART-specific nanobody, and they don’t have to go back through the ethics committee again for patient approval. AEMPS”—this was some sort of regulatory agency—“is expediting everything. Everyone is throwing resources at it. I’m not . . . actively involved, but the trials will finish soon, and that’s the important thing. Hopefully this one will be the answer.”

“Oh, Dec.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m alive, and we got far enough that they can replicate everything. I’ll get better, and I’ll get back to work.”

“Are you . . . okay . . . with this?” I asked, puzzled by his upbeat attitude.

He took in a breath and regarded the screen silently. I thought at first he’d become mired in regret over his personal losses, but his eyes shifted as an unmistakable longing crossed his face. “Kiki,” he said softly. “I wish—”

He broke off and the moment drew out. My senses sharpened, along with a little kick of anticipation. What was he going to say?

“Yes?” I urged him.

He regarded me for another beat but must not have found in my face whatever he sought, because he exhaled and leaned back against the headboard, shutting his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice rang with its usual easy jocularity. He fluttered a hand by his temple. “Nothing, sorry. I got seized by a useless thought.”

I wanted to press him, but something struck me. “Dec,” I said. “When you got sick, did you take it? Your drug, I mean?”

He laughed, a quick, short bark. “No, I did not. I might have risked it if I’d realized what was happening. But I don’t remember anything from getting sick. The first thing I knew I was waking up eons later with some bossy-arse nurse digging her knuckles into my chest and yelling at me to breathe. The lab was long since shut down by then, so, yeah: no idea yet if Humpy will work in humans. For all we know, he’ll kill them.” He hesitated and met my eyes. “But no worries, Kiki. I’ll get going again. I want to be a part of ending this thing.”

—

WE SPOKE A few more minutes before signing off, and almost immediately my phone rang again. I knew who it was this time without even looking: Vani, who texted me each year on this date—January 28—at this hour to commemorate the most eventful day in the history of our friendship.

This year’s text began with the usual happy birthday wishes to Beau and the usual pointed reminder to me of how instrumental she’d been in his birth. This never failed to make me simultaneously smile and grimace; after the passage of seven years, the memories of that awful, incredible night have been told and retold, distilled down as part of my family lore until what remains has achieved the glittery, polished status of a fable. I’m no longer certain what is real and what’s been embellished, but it’s a hell of a good story.