Brain Dead

Dr. Vitra looked more stoic than usual outside the emergency room.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Chang. It’s not looking good.”

I didn’t know whether to scream or cry or kick him in the ankles. I did all three.

Vitra limped to a chair. Rubbing his shins, he gave me that ‘I have to operate on these’ look. I glared back: ‘Use a walker, wimp.’

“Mrs. Chang, I understand. But no suitable donor soon means no new brain for your husband.”

“Use one off the shelf.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Another Costco special coming up,” Vitra said, yanking up his surgical mask.