THE CHIMERA PROTOCOL

“Are you sure you don’t want to give it another week?” Alice’s voice was a familiar melody of worry as she hip-checked the refrigerator door closed. In her hands, a brown paper bag rustled with the disappointing weight of something undoubtedly healthy. “The doctors cleared me, Alice. Three months, six days, and… ” I glanced at the clock above the stove, “…twenty-two hours ago. I’m not a patient anymore. I’m a surgeon who needs to get back to work before she forgets which end of a scalpel to hold.” My sister’s hazel eyes, so like our mother’s, clouded with that particular brand of concern she’d perfected over a lifetime of being my keeper. I’d been born broken, and Alice had appointed herself chief engineer of my survival. Through every surgery, every hospitalization, every near-miss, she’d been there—a tiny, fierce guardian with a coloring book and a steady hand to hold. “You just like having me around because I do your laundry,” I teased, pushing off the plush sofa that had been my prison-convalescence bed for too long. The movement was effortless. That still startled me. For the first time in my life, my body didn’t feel like a burden I had to carefully carry from one moment to the next. It felt like a promise. She closed the bag before I could peek. “Turkey sandwich. Apple. And before you ask, no, I didn’t sneak in any of that horrible processed ham you love.” A sound rumbled in my chest.. not a sigh, but something lower, more primal. It startled us both. Alice’s eyes widened, and she reached out, bopping me lightly on the nose like she used to when we were kids. “Is that how you thank me?” I caught her hand, kissed her knuckles. “I should do worse. Maybe I’ll reorganize your spice cabinet. Alphabetically. By region of origin.” “You’re a monster,” she said, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. The creases in her forehead deepened as I shrugged into my coat. “Maddie…” “Don’t.” I turned, forcing a lightness I didn’t entirely feel. The energy inside me was a caged thing, pounding against my ribs, begging to be let loose. I wanted to run. To climb. To move in ways my old heart would have considered a death sentence. “You know I take this as seriously as you do. I’ve just… I’ve never felt this alive before. Let me have it.” Tears glossed her eyes. “Call me. The second you get in. And at lunch. Oliver promised to keep an eye on you.” “Your spy network is impressive.” I kissed her forehead, lingering as she stiffened slightly under my touch. My new heart gave a hard, sudden thump against my breastbone, as if objecting to the distance. “I’ll be fine. We’ll order that terrible vegan pizza tonight and watch something with too many explosions. A normal night. I promise.” The hallway outside our apartment felt like a runway. My senses, already heightened since the surgery, seemed to sharpen further. I could smell the wet concrete from yesterday’s rain, the ghost of garlic from 3B’s dinner, the waxy perfume of the floor polish. I heard the muffled thump of a bassline two floors down, the skitter of a mouse in the walls. Too much. I shook my head, trying to clear it. Side effects, the rational surgeon in me supplied. Immunosuppressants. Adjusted neurology. The brain rewiring itself around a new central pump. Alice’s door clicked open again. She rushed out, her veterinarian’s keys jangling at her hip, and thrust the forgotten lunch bag into my hands. “No red meat,” she said, her voice thick. “It was worth a shot,” I said, forcing a grin. “Love you,” she called as the elevator doors closed between us. “Love you more,” I whispered to the empty car. My new heart gave another peculiar, syncopated beat. For a fleeting second, it didn’t feel like mine at all.