Seconds after Dr. Iverson’s apology-filled exit, this other door opens; a lean, immaculately groomed man in pressed gray pants, a stark white dress shirt, and a gray wool bow tie enters.

My first thought is he must be hella hot; Elytown is unseasonably blistering.

My next thought: everything about him feels designed, staged, like a house you were trying to sell.

His smile.

His perfectly square silver-frame glasses matching his gray eyes.

This kind of guy, anything he offers, you read the fine print twice.

He extends his hand to Ms. Barrantes, then to me: a cold, tight grip.

“I am Mr. Oklahoma.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Oklahoma,” she says, glancing at me like she wants me to exchange pleasantries.

But that’s not happening. This dude, one of those I can’t quite put my finger on what’s wrong with you people. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not your real name?” I ask.

His customer-service smile doesn’t wilt the slightest. “I will be your personal reanimation liaison, Ms. Barrantes. Your case is my only assignment. As such, day or night, I am at your call. Should you require anything, I will do my level best to bring it to fruition. Should you have questions or concerns, I will work to address your inquiries. It is our expectation that this experience be the very best for Quincy. For you. And for your family. We demand of ourselves your full satisfaction.”

“It sounds . . . too good,” Ms. Barrantes says.

Mr. Oklahoma hands her a paper-thin, transparent tablet.

“This is a transfer of care authorization,” she says.

“It will allow us to move Quincy to our facility.”

She looks up. “But how do I know any of this is legit?” And for a second, I expect her to tell me to stand, say we’re leaving. But instead, her finger glides across the signature line.

“You will not regret this,” he says, in a voice that makes me wonder how long it is until we do.

79

Two years ago, my freshman biology teacher burst into the lab with too much excitement for nine a.m. and asked his students if we’d watched the hearings.

We hadn’t.

“They’re saying they can bring someone back from the dead,” he’d said.

What? How? Had they already done it? we all wanted to know.

“Not yet,” he admitted. “But they’re close, and . . .”

But he’d already lost us.

Except now, here I am.

On the verge of seeing the amazing.

But this is night and day compared to what my teacher explained that morning.

He’d said researchers were working to extend human life for a few minutes, maybe several hours. That this technology would also restore them to their prior level of health, pre-illness, pre-accident. The hope was, with more time, family and friends could make it to the bedside of their dying loved one, exchange a few lucid words before they passed.