Several weeks passed, and the living corpse that erged from that ancient crypt now looked entirely human—a boy, perhaps ten years of age, with dark hair and pale skin.
He was no longer confined to the glass box. Instead, he sat in a stark white room, and the soft floor was his bed. And on the door was a tal placard,
[Patient: 0]
He wasn't alone in this white room, though. Dr. Aniston sat with her legs crossed on the floor beside him, holding a colorful shape sorter toy. She picked up a red square block and held it up.
"This is a square," she said gently, her voice warm and patient. "It goes in the square hole. See?"
She demonstrated, sliding the block through the matching opening. "Square."
Patient Zero watched intently, his lips moving as if trying to form the word. Only ragged breaths erged, but his eyes showed understanding.
"Would you like to try?" Dr. Aniston offered him the toy.
Patient Zero reached for it carefully, his fingers brushing against hers as he took the shape sorter. The contact made him pause, looking down at their joined hands with wonder.
Dr. Aniston smiled and gently brushed her fingers across his hand.
"This is your hand," she said softly, pointing to different parts. "These are your fingers. This is your palm. And this is your wrist. Wrist."
Patient Zero's mouth moved again, still struggling to produce sound, but his eyes were bright with curiosity.
But then, once again—
A harsh screech erupted from the intercom, making both of them jump.
User Comments
0 comments from readers