Sylvia finished the scans and refused to hear the results.
That was perhaps not the most responsible decision she had ever made, but her responsibility had taken a severe injury somewhere between the third glandular map and the phrase "new pheromonal pathway integration."
Seven had started explaining something about endocrine strain.
Sylvia had looked him directly in the eyes and said, "Am I dying?"
"No."
"Am I about to explode?"
"No."
"Can Thomas see the report?"
"Yes."
"Can Dean understand it?"
"Unfortunately."
"Then tell them. I am done."
Seven had stared at her for a long moment.
Then, with the grave disappointment of a physician robbed of an unwilling lecture victim, he sent the results to more capable people.
That was how Sylvia ended up in a quiet recovery room beside the scan wing, wrapped in a blanket, with her nape protected by a soft medical collar and her body feeling like it had been rewritten by someone with beautiful handwriting and no consent form.
