I reach Dr. Smith’s Manhattan office right on time.
A world-renowned eye surgeon, he’s one of the physicians who has been following my case since I lost my sight.
The instant we step inside, the receptionist ushers us into a room and tells us the doctor is finishing up with a patient and will be in shortly.
So, we sit and wait.
And wait.
And I quickly remember that a doctor’s version of shortly isn’t the same as the rest of us.
It’s been no less than thirty minutes by the time he makes his grand entrance into the room.
Well, I’m assuming it’s grand, but I have to assume a lot of things these days.
“Ansel,” Dr. Smith greets, and the sound of a door clicking shut echoes off the walls. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I’d say the same, but we all know I can’t see.”
“Jesus,” Bram mutters. He probably meant for it to be under his breath, but it’s really true what they say. Losing one sense heightens the others.
“Still heavy with the sarcasm, I see,” the doc says through a chuckle, after which the room grows quiet for a moment. No sarcastic remarks from my brother and no sounds of movement from the doctor as he’s obviously settled behind his desk.
Quiet stretches like this make me uncomfortable. Without sound to guide me, the black behind my lids seems endless.
“Dark humor at my eyes’ expense is about the only thing that gets me through these days,” I admit to cut off the silence.
It has just the effect I desired. Bram swallows loudly and shuffles his foot on the rug, and Dr. Smith starts typing something on his laptop. At least, I assume that’s what the clacking sound I hear is.
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and mentally picture what his notes might look like.
Thirty-year-old patient is still blind, sarcastic, and a dick.
I nearly laugh.
“Is there a specific reason you wanted to see Ansel today?” my brother asks, and the doctor clears his throat.
“Well, I have some news,” he says. “After eight long months, we’ve received approval.”
“Approval?” I ask.
“For a bilateral transplant,” he answers.
“I’m sorry, what?” I can barely keep my voice steady. I’m surprised and, worse yet, hopeful. Somehow, I push the question past the clog in my throat anyway. “Are you talking about an eye transplant?”
“I am,” he confirms.
“But I thought that wasn’t possible?” Bram chimes in.
“It wasn’t a year ago, but it is now,” he explains. “Ansel would be one of the first in the country.”
“Are you fucking with me right now, Doc?” My breathing is erratic and forced and so loud, I’m almost certain I’m not the only one in the room who can hear it.
“No,” he says and then adds, “Ansel, we can make you see again.”
Ansel
“Ansel!” Bram calls toward me. “Shit! Slow down!”
I keep moving, tapping my cane fast and furious on the ground in front of me, out of Dr. Smith’s office building and onto the pavement. I never move this quickly anymore, and I barely know this area of town, so I have a feeling the exercise is just for show. If there’s anything in my path, the crash landing is going to be hard.
But I can’t stop my feet from moving.
Fucking hell. He thinks he can make me see again.
He wants me to trust him and his team to perform an intense, extremely difficult surgery that’s barely even been performed before, let alone established a solid success rate.
Coma.
Death.
Permanent brain damage.
When Dr. Smith started reading through the long list of risks, I had to get out of there.
My heart races, and the sounds of cars rolling by on the street guide me to stay on the far side of the sidewalk.
One of the first eye transplants in the country…
My boots move over the concrete as fast as I can manage, and it’s not until I accidentally bump into someone that I stop.
“Shit, sorry,” I mutter after a soft female voice squeaks out her surprise. “Are you okay?” I ask and, out of reflex, I reach out my hand, but I know my blind ass isn’t going to be able to do a damn thing to help her.
I can hardly help my fucking self.
“I’m fine,” she says, pity lacing the edge of her words. “It’s fine.”
Fuck. I want to scream, pound on my chest, and break shit like a fucking lunatic, but I rein in my frustration. It won’t do me any good.