Dr. Iverson one step outside the threshold. “Ms. Barrantes, doesn’t your son deserve the same chance?”

“Ms. B,” I say again. “Ms. Barrantes? Ms. Barrantes?”

The doors nearly closed.

But then Ms. B throws her arm in between.

81

“Why my son? Why my Quincy?”

Dr. Iverson frowns. “I’m afraid that I can’t tell you.”

“And why not?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not being cute. I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I qualify our reanimation candidates, but I don’t select them.”

The elevator alarm sounds. It wants to close, but Ms. B’s arm is there.

She nods at me, and we step back into the hall. “Who does the selecting?”

“Usually? A board.”

“You said usually. Not this time?”

“I’ll be honest, we haven’t reanimated anyone under these circumstances.”

I jump in. “Circumstances?”

Dr. Iverson glances my way. “We’ve performed nine reanimations. All were already being prepped prior to their deaths, because their deaths were expected.”

“But my son’s death was decidedly not expected.”

Dr. Iverson nods.

“So, this would be your first spontaneous reanimation?”

Another nod.

“If we do this, will he . . . be in any pain?”

Dr. Iverson shakes her head. “Quincy won’t feel a thing.”

Ms. B’s fingers trace the elevator panel, like she’s deciding if she should push the button, step back inside, walk into her empty house, alone. “He deserves more time,” Ms. B says finally. “You’re right. Everyone deserves one last word.” Her hand drops to her side. “Doctor, you’ll take good care of my son?”

“I’ll personally oversee the entire reanimation.”

Ms. B nods, and Dr. Iverson takes her hand. “You’re making the right decision.”

Dr. Iverson glances at her watch, smiles. “I apologize, but as I mentioned, we don’t have a lot of time. I should’ve already left the hospital. If you’ll follow me back to—”

I cut in. “Left for where?”

“The Center,” she answers.

“What center?” Ms. Barrantes asks. “You aren’t doing the . . . procedure here?”

“Reanimation is . . . very involved. There’s a lot of equipment, a lot of people at work.”

I clear my throat. “And all of this is legal, right?”

Dr. Iverson grins. “It’s not not legal. But of course, discretion is important.”

Dr. Iverson’s pocket vibrates, and she holds up a finger to us as she accepts the call.

“Yes,” she says into the receiver. “And the room’s prepped? Good. I’m on my way.”

I steal a look at Ms. B, but she’s leaning against the hallway wall, her eyes closed, her lips pursed in a low hum.

The doctor rattles off a sequence of numbers, and before she ends the call, she’s corralling us back down the hall. “I promise you. It won’t be long now.”

80

There’s a door behind the grief specialist’s desk.

I hadn’t noticed it.