"The — vascular targeting." The words come apart. "You attach the swarm to — to —"
"To the lipid membrane. I know. Keep going."
"I can't. I can't remember—"
"Rebecca."
"I'm here."
"Stay here."
My eyelids drop. The porch light slides away. Or I do. One of us is moving and it's not the light.
"Eric, I need to —"
"No. Don't. Whatever you're about to say, don't. Tell me about the swarm. Tell me about the dime. Tell me about anything. I need you to stay awake. I need you to talk to me for ten more minutes."
Ten minutes. I don't have ten minutes. The white room is warm now. The pain behind the glass stops running. It stands still, watching me through the window, waiting for me to come back, and I don't want to go back. Back is the cold stairs and the thin dress and the husband who isn't
