Flee
He thought about the man. Wondered about his family, if he’d had a wife or children before the bottle took him. If he still did. At least with his father’s patients the story was always complete. They would come to him, awake or with a loved one by their side.
“This is our story.” They would say, “A fever came quick in the night.” “The heel of an untrained horse.” “Foul meat.” “A heart that danced too quiet or off beat.” A mother, a sister, a brother, a father, lovers, soldiers, all.
But this . . . And the brand on his back . . .
Victor knew he couldn’t use that incantation, but there were others.
Some that worked better. When he graduated, he would be able to do more intimate study, partner with a hospital, refine his work.
Find patients who would gladly trade for the ability to live with a couple of old scars that could be rubbed away with patience and ointment.
But what now? What of Petyr’s smirking face?
The animals that Victor had killed to hasten his progress should not have died pointlessly.
Much less the objectionable circumstances with this man.
The ends could not justify the means if he could produce no ends.
Victor could not give up; he was too close.
The situation with the breathing machine and his grander destinies could wait.
He knew that his inventions worked on animals at least; that was enough.
But he needed a solution for the bet immediately.
He had only three weeks before graduation, the party, the viewing, and his subsequent humiliation unless he could figure out an idea that would—
“Are you quite all right?”
“What?” Victor looked up from his desk to find Krempe standing above him. The rest of the room was empty.
He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed class had ended.
Professor Krempe was staring down at him, curious.
“I said, are you quite all right? You haven’t been much yourself these days,” Krempe said. “Though I’m pleased for the lack of . . . histrionic classroom argument. But I would be remiss for not asking after a student that goes from a chatterbox to near silent almost overnight.”
Victor swallowed. He couldn’t talk about this. “Am I missing any assignments?”
“Well, no.”
“Have my exam or essay marks slipped in any way?”
“No, Victor. You seem even more committed if anything—”
Victor stood. “Then everything should be fine. Thank you. I don’t need any assistance.”
Victor left the classroom, then left the building entirely.
He needed to think. He needed to clear his mind.