Page 88 of Booked for Kidnapping

Bradley handed me the sheet back, and I checked the following paragraph, which also flagged me as highly fertile, with an extended conception window due to my body’s general inclination to release more than one egg, doing so across a week-long window.

The finding explained a lot regarding my fluctuating periods. although I’d never varied more than a week or two longer than the average twenty-eight days. “That’s good to know.”

“It certainly is,” Dr. Castor agreed.

I checked over the rest of the page, which declared I was generally healthy, although my status as an introvert had been brought into question, with a flag notating me as a closet extrovert with select people. I pointed at that part when I gave the sheet back to Bradley.

“Yes, this is not at all surprising to me.”

Go figure. I checked the next page, and when I didn’t find anything surprising or new, I handed it over for Bradley to review. While we went over the sheets, Dr. Castor stepped into the neighboring room and lit the fireplace.

“The first page goes away, Bradley,” I stated while sifting through the medical file for anything else indicating I’d potentially cause a great deal of trouble down the road should we decide to have children. I found three more sheets mentioning my predisposition, which joined the first page. “Those, too.”

Everything else seemed fine to share, so after I reviewed just how badly my foot had been mangled, my less-than-stellar reactions to the physical therapy portion of the operation, a list of reactions to certain drugs destined to drive everyone around me insane, and a very blunt description of my failing mental health without my select people around, I handed the folder to Mr. Hampton. “You get it first so you can join me in patient-based anxiety.”

“Unlike you, I’m capable of being a reasonable adult when it’s truly necessary,” Mr. Hampton informed me. “I think I’ll be fine.”

I bowed my head. “I just can’t win, can I?”

“I’m confident in your current health, so I have nothing to be anxious over, but I am amused by your attempt to spread the misery around.” He flipped through the sheets, taking his time with the section dedicated to the methodology of the procedure, which included a great deal of pain and suffering on my part. “This is less than ideal, and I have a much healthier respect for your memory having been wiped of this. Was that to mitigate the trauma, Dr. Castor?”

“Yes. If we’d left her as is, the trauma after the operation would have been emotionally crippling and scarring. We replaced what we couldn’t erase with perceptions of boredom and books, which is far superior to the reality of the situation.”

“Did my reality of the past few months include spicy food?” I asked.

The woman laughed and took her seat at the table. “Absolutely. Honestly, I fed you whatever you’d accept, and it became progressively harder to get you to eat between the physical therapy and your depression. The depression is why I ultimately sent you on home so it could naturally resolve itself. You’re highly driven by friends and family, and while you tried to put on a brave face, it was not working. We gambled, hoping your depression would resolve itself upon reuniting with your fiancé and your family. It seems to have worked.”

“She hasn’t shown any general signs or symptoms of depression,” Bradley said. “She has been more affectionate than we expected, though.”

“That’s because we’ve been very openly affectionate with her. Touch is the language of healing and love, and she’s needed a lot of support. In her case, we’d sit on the couch and read, I would make sure to hug her multiple times a day, and I’d soothe her when the pain wasn’t as manageable as I’d prefer. But simply put, I wasn’t the one she wanted hugs and affection from, and that wore down on her over time. It didn’t help we’d wipe her memories on a daily basis and replace with an imprint of being in isolation. As the pain levels decreased, we continued to maintain the erasures; it was a precaution against unwanted parties digging into her memories.”

“You weren’t able to erase the operation,” Mr. Hampton observed.

“It was left somewhat intact on purpose. Instead of erasing it, my colleague imprinted an aversion to the memories, knowing your family could read organic events. We wanted you to be able to verify the traumatic nature of what had happened to her. Essentially, she’ll mentally stumble upon remembering the operation and refocus on something else. Usually something dealing with books, as that was the easiest way to manipulate her. You, young lady, take your enjoyment of books to a ridiculous decree.”

“I cost you a fortune in books, didn’t I?”

“Well, my home library has never been quite so expansive before, that’s for certain. It was sweetly endearing how you would insist I read your latest favorite. I do regret we couldn’t leave the better memories intact, but we ran too high a risk of you remembering everything, and it was traumatic.”

“You thought it was better if I remembered nothing instead of that level of pain?”

“Yes. It was fairly horrific, and that’s hard for me to say considering my field of expertise. Even with the black market drugs we were able to procure, which are just as good as the hospital drugs, for the record, it just wasn’t feasible to mitigate the pain, not without severe problems later. The first month following the operation was the worst. If it makes you feel better, I did discuss this with you before we began. Had you refused the operation and the therapy, we wouldn’t have done it. Consent is important, and you ran a risk of death for the operation. You had regrets regarding certain elements, including no contact with your family, but you wanted to hold your own. And once I discussed the financials with you, you did not want to burden anyone with that sort of bill just so you could walk without wanting to scream.”

Huh. I did regret not remembering that. “I guess I’m sorry I created a hellish nine months for everybody, but I do really like my foot right now.”

“I really enjoy that I got to stick it to the government for barring you from getting the procedure. Of course, there are limited people who can do the operation, but without proof, leveling those accusations right now would not benefit anyone.”

“Because I have a habit of interfering with murder and attempted murder?”

Dr. Castor huffed, and then she sighed and shrugged. “Essentially. You’re a heroine in the eyes of the people. You save lives and everybody knows it. How you damaged your foot was made public knowledge, and they know you positioned the car to save your fiancé’s life. That he’s now your fiancé only makes your story that much more sympathetic. We are hoping that the government will view you as less of a threat to their master plan.”

I frowned. “Master plan? What master plan?”

“Those in the medical field have been speculating for a while that hospitals and general health care will become the domain of the wealthy. The idea is that anyone who wants medical care will need to be part of the United States military to access it, unless they’re exceptionally wealthy. We’re of the opinion this serves several purposes.”

“What purposes?” I dared to ask when everyone else remained silent.

“Population control is one. Building a stronger global presence is another. I fear that if the current legislations go through, they will hamper the ability of many citizens to receive critical health care. Cancer patients, in particular, will suffer the most. Patients with chronic conditions will lose access to most healthcare due to their pre-existing conditions. One of the bills will reset health insurance yearly, and anything other than routine care will fall under pre-existing condition rules. Even something as treatable as an ulcer will count as a pre-existing condition, even if the patient has fully healed and shows no signs of developing another ulcer. The military will snap up the talents they want and cure those people and allow the others to die off.”