Page 92 of Girl Lost
Easier for him, maybe. But for Stryker, it was a living nightmare.
How long? How long would this paralysis last? Was it temporary? Or had they done something irreversible? Something that would leave him trapped in this prison of his own body forever?
He tried to call out, to ask for help, but only managed a strangled gasp. They’d taken his voice too.
He was a living, breathing specimen, trapped in a cage of flesh and bone.
A soft hiss. The door opening.
He blinked. Waited. A sliver of hope flickered. Maybe Luna. Maybe Corbin. Maybe someone had come to rescue him.
Not Luna. Not Corbin.
Dr. Forest. The man who held his life in his hands. The man who saw him as nothing more than a resource. A means to an end.
And someone else.
A woman. A young woman. Face pale. Lips pale. Bloodless. Drawn. Skin ... translucent. Blue veins winding like a road map of fragility.
Wheelchair. Her chest rising and falling. Her breathing shallow. Labored.
“Stryker, this is Dr. Elizabeth Forest.” Dr. Forest stopped the wheelchair beside the bed.
The bed whirred. Rose to a forty-five-degree angle. He could see the woman more clearly now. She looked older than he’d thought. Forty perhaps. Her eyes a dull blue, shadowed with fatigue. Like she’d seen too much.
“Elizabeth is my daughter,” Forest said.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. King.” Elizabeth lifted a hand but let it fall back to her lap. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She sounded strong despite her frail appearance.
He licked his cracked lips. Fought the lingering nausea. “All ... good ... things ... I hope.”
“The best,” she said.
Dr. Forest said, “Elizabeth’s a brilliant young doctor. A pioneer in her field.” He glanced at his daughter. “She’s the one who developedthe bioprinting process. The one who’s going to change the world.”
Elizabeth’s gaze dropped to her lap. “It’s not just me, Dad. It’s a team effort.”
“Nonsense, darling.” Forest patted her hand. “You’re the brains behind it all. The genius who saw the potential when everyone else dismissed it as science fiction.”
He turned to Stryker, his eyes hard. Intense. “You see, Mr. King, we’re not monsters. We’re visionaries. We’re trying to save lives. To solve a crisis that’s plaguing humanity.”
“Crisis?” Stryker’s brow furrowed. “What crisis?”
“The organ shortage,” Elizabeth said. “It’s a global epidemic, Mr. King. Millions of people are dying every year, waiting for a transplant. The demand far outweighs the supply. Did you know that in the United States alone, over a hundred thousand people are on the organ transplant waiting list? And every day, seventeen people die waiting for a lifesaving organ. That’s seventeen people who could have been saved if we had the technology to create new organs.”
“Living donors ... are ... are an option.” The words felt weak. Inadequate in the face of her passion.
“Kidneys and livers, but it’s not enough.” Forest cut him off. “And even when there are living donors, it’s a risky procedure. You’re asking a healthy person to undergo major surgery, to potentially sacrifice their own health, for someone they might not even know.”
Elizabeth said, “It’s never going to be enough. What about hearts? People can’t die fast enough to save everyone who needs a heart.”
“So, you’re justifying your actions?” He’d found his voice. Planned to use it. “You’re justifying kidnapping innocent people, harvesting their organs? Just because they made mistakes, because they struggled with addiction, you decided their lives were expendable? That their bodies were just ... resources?”
“It’s not like that, Mr. King.” Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair. “We’re not targeting just anyone. We’re focusing on those who are already lost. Those who are throwing their lives away. Those who, in a sense, have already chosen death.”
“They’re still human beings.” He shifted. The restraints bit into his wrists, but they weren’t paralyzed like his legs. “Those people deserve a chance.” He studied Elizabeth’s face, searching for a flicker of doubt, a hint of compassion in those cool blue eyes. He saw none. “You’re playing God, deciding who lives. Who dies.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on the arms of her wheelchair. She rolled forward an inch and thrust her chin forward. “Someone has to. He doesn’t seem to care much anymore.”
