The epidemic was pulmonary in nature. Will spent hours in the dark scan room amid blue white ghost images of ribcages.
Miriam’s ribs were loaded into the computer. Comparison data, the 5th scan in 3 months. There was promise. Infection clearing. This presentation he had seen before, hope only to be ravaged.
Just a tech.
I’m just a tech.
Some people, cases, images adhered to him.
Miriam was a horrible woman, sauerkraut and pickled. Bitter at the fact she couldn’t pay her way out, indignant that she got claustrophobic. And the machine was noisy. No love there. But her ribs. This illness.
His curiosity was piqued. What if he could unlock this mystery. What would a life outside the obscurity of the 400 square foot glassed chamber feel like. He took the longest files, the patients who had survived at least three scans, the ones that turned. Certainly there must be a pattern. Some way to make sense of it all. Looking for anomalies, he overlaid images. Spots that made for a theory. Certainly brute force worked before: Edison tried hundreds of materials before unlocking the right filament.
First, it seemed like chickenscratch, the random striations of bone. Yet there was a screen flicker of recognition. Something here, but not.
He enhanced the area.
He trapped the lines and dialed down the white. He inverted.
Yes. Absolutely familiar but still removed.
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