Free Into the Fire by Peter Liney

said he’ll make you part of it,” I told her, deciding not to mention the other costs for the moment.
    She just sat there, gently shaking her head, as if it was all too much.
    “Just see him, Lena, please? If there’s nothing doing, well . . . But if there’s any chance . . .”
    She kissed me on the cheek. “You’re the most wonderful man in the world.”
    “I know,” I joked.
    “I’d do anything to be able to see you.”
    I hugged her, kissed her head, burying my lips in that warm profusion of thick brown hair, aware that, actually, that was probably the last thing I wanted to hear her say. All I could do was to try to put it out of my mind, but it wasn’t gonna be easy. See, if she does get her sight back—and I know that’s a big if —but if she does, what the hell’s she gonna think when she comes face to face with this big old bag of sad wrinkles and bent bones?
    The next day, as arranged, I took Lena to Dr. Simon’s private clinic. He had patients all morning, but he’d assured me he’d do his best to fit us in at lunchtime. We didn’t tell the others, not yet, not with so much hanging on it.
    Dr. Simon’s clinic was at his home up in the hills, where the smoke smelled a little more like wood instead of giving off that chemical odor she hated so much. It was one of those swanky enclaves, with security so tight they can read the whole place at any given moment and tell you how many people are in there, where they are, even what they’re doing.
    When we got to the gate they really gave us the once-over: initially ’cuz of our appearance, I guess, but then ’cuz they discovered we had no implants—we were nonpeople. They made us wear those bracelets that not only monitor you, but damn near take your hand off if you’re caught doing anything you shouldn’t, officiously informing the driver Dr. Simon sent down that they weren’t happy about “nonpeople” in the compound and it would have to go down in the records.
    The guy drove us the few hundred yards up to the house without a word, obviously no more relaxed about the situation than securitywere. He kept glancing in his rearview mirror at us, as if he couldn’t wait to get this odd-looking couple on his back seat out and give it a damn good clean. Mind you, it was a nice limo: long, shiny as a dinner plate and clearly bullet- and laser-proof, just like the ones Mr. Meltoni used to have. As for the house, well, it was every bit as huge and imposing, every bit as stylish, as you’d expect from someone like the Doc.
    Naturally, we weren’t taken to the front door where we might embarrass one of his wealthy patients but ushered around the back and in through a side entrance, then hurried into his office.
    “The doctor will be with you shortly,” the receptionist said, as Lena immediately started to find her way around the room, feeling the large expanses of shiny minimalism, stroking some pretty expensive-looking ornaments, checking the acreage of the Impressionist originals.
    “How much did you say this would cost?” she asked.
    “It’s not a problem,” I told her. “Just, er . . . a few thousand for the staff.”
    “Clancy!” she protested.
    “Nothing for him . . . I said, he’s doing some kind of study.”
    She groaned as if having second, or even third, thoughts.
    “Just see him,” I begged. “What’ve you got to lose?”
    It’s funny: there was this moment when Dr. Simon first entered the room when I felt really uncomfortable, almost like he’d forgotten something—the quality that made me trust him the previous day. He seemed much more businesslike, and probably ’cuz it was his private clinic, looked even smarter in a silver-gray sharkskin suit with swirly blue silk tie and soft leather slip-ons.
    “Clancy.” He nodded at me, making no attempt to shake my hand. “And this must be Lena?”
    She didn’t say anything, which slightly surprised me—normally she’s pretty friendly.
    “Take a seat,” he