Page 69 of Even Robots Die
It doesn’t help that when I wake up, there is a glass of water waiting for me on my nightstand and that it’s accompanied by a plate of chocolate cake.
Did I not eat that?
I’m rubbing my eyes with the heel of my hands when a cramp makes itself known.
It’s very subdued in comparison to yesterday—was it yesterday?
I tap on my holo to activate it. Wednesday, September seventeen, eleven twenty-six.
My dreadful period started on Monday.
I’ve lost a full day.
Shit.
I don’t know what that pill was that Brice gave me but I have a feeling it could knock out a horse.
At least I’m not hurting anymore, but that also means I’ve lost a day to help my sisters. If Dad disappeared two days—no, three days—ago, I can’t really help from here.
I need to go back to Paris.
The problem is that, like Amélie said, we need the money, and if I don’t complete what I’ve been hired—cough, kidnapped—for I don’t see that money coming. Yes, I’ve worked for days, hell, for weeks, on this project, but I didn’t deliver yet. And I’ve mostly tackled only one of Brice’s problems.
I still have no clue how to bring back this ass’s feelings, sentiments, or whatever.
The interweb might have an idea, but from what I read, it’s even more risky than what we’re trying to do in the first place.
But I guess as long as he’s alive and not trying to kill his best friend again, he can live without his feelings. He’ll just stay a big asshole. I know people who canfeeland they’re bigger assholes. It might be his default setting too, for all I know.
Aren’t you being a little mean? He took care of you before you slept for a full day …
True. I might have dreamed the part where he slipped in bed with me, but I still very clearly remember him bringing me medicine and making me drink some water.
After that, that’s when it starts to be fuzzy.
The door opens and here he is.
“You’re awake at last,” he says.
“If someone hadn’t drugged me, maybe I would have been awake earlier,” I bite back.
“You’d probably still be in pain and feverish,” he answers matter-of-factly.
“Touché,” I mumble to myself and then I add a bit louder, “I need to go back to Paris. It’s an emergency.”
I expect him to tell me it’s not possible since we’re only days from doing the surgery that will liberate him, but instead, he surprises me.
“When do you need to leave?” he asks.
“You’re not going to try to make me stay to do the surgery?” I ask in disbelief.
“Should I?” he says, and my brain short-circuits.
Did I think he would ask or tell me to stay? Yes. Did I want him to tell me to stay? I’m not even sure I can answer “no” to that question.
And that’s what is stalling my mind.
Brice seems to realize what’s happening because he doesn’t wait for an answer to his first question.
