Page 176 of Porcelain Lies

I crush the thought ruthlessly, focusing instead on the sound of his chatter, memorizing the sound of his laughter.

We arrive at the hospital faster than I expect, and the private wing gleams ahead — polished glass and stainless steel reflecting the brightness of the sunlight. My men are alreadystationed at the entrance, their presence a silent reassurance, though they can do nothing for the battle waging inside me. I park in the reserved spot and exhale slowly, steadying my hands before I step out.

Dr. Malhotra greets us personally, his calm confidence reassuring. “Ah, young Mr. Tarasov! Ready for your big adventure?”

“More than ready,” Bobik declares. “I’ve been studying the procedure. The neural interface is fascinating!”

“Indeed, it is.” Dr. Malhotra’s eyes crinkle with genuine warmth. “Perhaps you can explain it to your father while we get you settled?” The doctor winks at me as Bobik launches into yet another explanation of neurons and synapses.

The private suite exceeds even my exacting standards. State-of-the-art monitoring equipment fills one wall, while the other features a large window overlooking the city. Everything speaks of cash well spent — the best care money can buy for my son.

I help transfer Bobik to the hospital bed while nurses bustle around, checking vitals and starting preliminary procedures. He continues his excited explanation of the technology, his hands moving animatedly as he speaks.

“And see,Papa? The AI learns from my brain signals, creating new neural pathways. It’s like… like teaching my spine to talk to my legs again!”

I nod, struggling to focus on his words rather than the IV being inserted into his arm. “Very impressive,syn. You understand it better than I do.”

“That’s because you’re old,” he teases, then winces slightly as the nurse adjusts something. I tense, but he waves off my concern. “I’m fine. Just a pinch.”

Dr. Malhotra returns with forms requiring my signature. Legal documents acknowledging risks, consenting to procedures. Each signature feels like signing away a piece of my soul.

“We’ll begin prepping him for surgery in about twenty minutes,” he explains gently. “You can stay until then.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. Bobik reaches for my hand again.

“Papa?Will you tell me about when I was little? Before the chair?”

The request catches me off guard. “What do you want to know?”

“Did I ever try to walk? What were my first words?”

I settle into the chair beside his bed, old memories flooding back. “You were always moving, always curious. You started trying to crawl before you could even sit up properly.”

I don’t tell him that there’d been no chance that his tiny legs would ever support him. That he’d be destined to drag himself around until we’d helped him adjust to a chair.

Instead, I focus on the highlights. “You were advanced in so many ways. The doctors were amazed.”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

“Da malysh. Your mother could barely keep up with you. And your first word?Kniga— book. Even then, you loved learning.”

He smiles, squeezing my hand. “Tell me more”

So, I do. I tell him about his first attempts at rolling over, his fascination with anything mechanical, how he would babble in a mix of Russian and English. Each memory is precious, painful, filled with what-ifs and might-have-beens.

Too soon, Dr. Malhotra returns. “It’s time.”

Bobik’s grip on my hand tightens momentarily. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”

“Of course,syn. I won’t leave.”

He nods bravely. “I love you,Papa.”

The words hit me so hard that I feel like the wind has been knocked from me. I grit my teeth to keep the hurt from coloring my expression.

“I love you too,malysh.” I lean down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”

I stand frozen as they wheel my son away, my feet rooted to the pristine hospital floor despite every instinct screaming to follow. The squeak of the gurney’s wheels echoes down the sterile corridor, each sound driving the knife deeper into my chest.

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