She knew this meant abandoning the child to its fate, but she was also aware that the child the man had taken—the one in cot 39—was no ordinary creature.

-25-

-25-

“There isn’t a specific test for this yet, unfortunately. We’ll have to reach a diagnosis through a process of elimination and a careful evaluation of physical and psychological symptoms.”

Teresa listened as she sat in a chair that was so small it compressed her thighs. The clinic was stifling and aggressively bright; her throat burned with the instinct to flee, but she wasn’t afraid. She felt neither pain nor sorrow—only emptiness. She just wanted to go home.

“Of course there are some tests we can conduct. In any event, you should know that the rate of progression varies between individuals: it could be a few years, or it could be thirty.”

Carmen Mura had been her doctor for twenty years now, but Teresa still hadn’t figured out why she always reverted to a collective “we” in times of crisis.

The doctor pushed a piece of paper toward Teresa, giving her patient’s hand a quick squeeze.

“We’ll have to ask you to sign this consent form to allow other hospitals to access your clinical history. This is especially important if we establish you are indeed affected. In an emergency, your mental state might prevent you from explaining your situation. And we must not forget about your diabetes.”

Teresa nodded. As she took the pen Carmen gave her, she noticed that her own hand was shaking. Perhaps she wasn’t as calm as she thought. She scrawled a signature that bore only a passing resemblance to her usual one: it looked like the cardiogram of her tormented soul.

Carmen continued: “We should start with blood and urine tests, followed by an MRI scan. This will provide us with an extremely detailed image of the brain. We’ll run another scan a few months down the line to see if there have been any changes. A CAT scan might also be helpful in determining whether there is any cerebral atrophy. Are you happy with that?”

Teresa nodded. She knew that in the long run, none of it was of any use, but she couldn’t bring herself to resist.

“I do want to make one thing clear, though, and I hope you won’t mind my being direct: there is, at present, no cure for this.”

Teresa sank her fingernails into the handbag on her lap.

The doctor had finally said it. It must have required some courage, and it had taken them almost an hour of empty chit-chat to get to this point.

“Thank you for seeing me so late in the day,” said Teresa, rising to her feet.

“Do you have any questions?”