and always made sure to use random letters and numbers, not recognizable words. He didn't write the password anywhere; he used mnemonics to memorize it.
None of which had posed much of an obstacle to Paul, it seemed.
The latest entry was from September thirtieth, only a week previous. Paul must have copied the files sometime before their argument -- a little ace in the hole for him, in case John didn't agree to let him move out.
I can even prove it
, Paul had said that night.
The emergency room, tomb-quiet at that hour, faded to insignificance. John looked through the entries -- and at the hate-filled diatribe that introduced them -- with a kind of detached fascination. He would have to call Eric soon, to find out what kind of damage had been done. Just as soon as he worked up the energy to explain all that had happened.
As if from a great distance, John heard the opening of the double doors and looked up. A doctor in scrubs had emerged. She called his name and asked him to follow her.
The surgeon's name was Dr. Stramm. She showed him to an office -- wood-grain desk, two chairs, and a small couch upholstered in leather. Stramm ushered him in and shut the door behind him. She closed the window blinds as he sat. He wondered vaguely how many times he had sat in various offices through the years, listening as some functionary or another told him what was wrong with his son.
He became aware that he was holding his breath. His mouth had gone dry.
The surgeon -- stocky, middle-aged, dark hair shot with gray -- sat on the arm of the leather couch. She inhaled deeply and said, "Mr. Griffin, Paul has suffered very serious injuries, but I believe he will recover."
He exhaled in a long, shuddery breath. A fit of trembling seized him. All thought of his pirated diaries fled his mind. He could only think of Marie. At that moment, he realized how terrified he had been of letting her down, of betraying her trust . . . of validating her doubt of him.
"However, I need to make clear that we're not out of the woods yet," Dr. Stramm said. "The surgery to repair his internal injuries was as successful as I could hope, but he's lost a great deal of blood. He's still unconscious, and in critical condition. We've moved him to intensive care, and we'll keep a close watch on him, but we've done everything we can. Now it's up to Paul. In twenty-four hours, we'll know more."
She cleared her throat. "Paul's gravest injury was to his kidneys. He took stab wounds in both of them. He has suffered a complete loss of kidney function -- acute renal failure, to put it in medical terms. In Paul's case, I'm afraid, the damage cannot be repaired."
John stopped nodding. "Cannot be . . . but . . . how --"
"He's on dialysis. That will hold him for as long as necessary."
"Dialysis." He stared past her.
"Ideally, that will only be a temporary solution. He needs a kidney transplant."
"Do you have a donor?"
"Not yet, no. To minimize the chances of tissue rejection, a close relative would be best." She stopped, fixing her gaze on him.
His shell-shocked mind took several moments to catch her meaning. "I'm the closest relative he has."
"Mr. Griffin, the risk to you would be minimal. You can lead a normal life with --"
"I only have one kidney. I was born that way."
Her mouth tightened. "I see."
He slumped, shaking his head. "God, I can remember being so worried when Steven was born, that he might be the same way. My wife and I were so relieved that he was normal."
"You have another son?"
"He died many years ago. Paul was cloned from his cells."
"Ah. I noticed the tattoo."
They sat in silence for long moments.
Dr. Stramm said, "We can put Paul on a waiting list, if we must. Those lists tend to be long, though. He could be waiting for years."
"What about stem cells? Can't you grow him a new kidney?"
"That's an option, yes, but you would need donor eggs. Those are harder to come by than kidneys. Many people have a moral objection to them. The
None of which had posed much of an obstacle to Paul, it seemed.
The latest entry was from September thirtieth, only a week previous. Paul must have copied the files sometime before their argument -- a little ace in the hole for him, in case John didn't agree to let him move out.
I can even prove it
, Paul had said that night.
The emergency room, tomb-quiet at that hour, faded to insignificance. John looked through the entries -- and at the hate-filled diatribe that introduced them -- with a kind of detached fascination. He would have to call Eric soon, to find out what kind of damage had been done. Just as soon as he worked up the energy to explain all that had happened.
As if from a great distance, John heard the opening of the double doors and looked up. A doctor in scrubs had emerged. She called his name and asked him to follow her.
The surgeon's name was Dr. Stramm. She showed him to an office -- wood-grain desk, two chairs, and a small couch upholstered in leather. Stramm ushered him in and shut the door behind him. She closed the window blinds as he sat. He wondered vaguely how many times he had sat in various offices through the years, listening as some functionary or another told him what was wrong with his son.
He became aware that he was holding his breath. His mouth had gone dry.
The surgeon -- stocky, middle-aged, dark hair shot with gray -- sat on the arm of the leather couch. She inhaled deeply and said, "Mr. Griffin, Paul has suffered very serious injuries, but I believe he will recover."
He exhaled in a long, shuddery breath. A fit of trembling seized him. All thought of his pirated diaries fled his mind. He could only think of Marie. At that moment, he realized how terrified he had been of letting her down, of betraying her trust . . . of validating her doubt of him.
"However, I need to make clear that we're not out of the woods yet," Dr. Stramm said. "The surgery to repair his internal injuries was as successful as I could hope, but he's lost a great deal of blood. He's still unconscious, and in critical condition. We've moved him to intensive care, and we'll keep a close watch on him, but we've done everything we can. Now it's up to Paul. In twenty-four hours, we'll know more."
She cleared her throat. "Paul's gravest injury was to his kidneys. He took stab wounds in both of them. He has suffered a complete loss of kidney function -- acute renal failure, to put it in medical terms. In Paul's case, I'm afraid, the damage cannot be repaired."
John stopped nodding. "Cannot be . . . but . . . how --"
"He's on dialysis. That will hold him for as long as necessary."
"Dialysis." He stared past her.
"Ideally, that will only be a temporary solution. He needs a kidney transplant."
"Do you have a donor?"
"Not yet, no. To minimize the chances of tissue rejection, a close relative would be best." She stopped, fixing her gaze on him.
His shell-shocked mind took several moments to catch her meaning. "I'm the closest relative he has."
"Mr. Griffin, the risk to you would be minimal. You can lead a normal life with --"
"I only have one kidney. I was born that way."
Her mouth tightened. "I see."
He slumped, shaking his head. "God, I can remember being so worried when Steven was born, that he might be the same way. My wife and I were so relieved that he was normal."
"You have another son?"
"He died many years ago. Paul was cloned from his cells."
"Ah. I noticed the tattoo."
They sat in silence for long moments.
Dr. Stramm said, "We can put Paul on a waiting list, if we must. Those lists tend to be long, though. He could be waiting for years."
"What about stem cells? Can't you grow him a new kidney?"
"That's an option, yes, but you would need donor eggs. Those are harder to come by than kidneys. Many people have a moral objection to them. The
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