No.8
As the heir to a bloodline of diagnostic empaths, I was born with an extraordinary gift.
The instant my fingers made contact with a patient’s skin, I could hear every organ speak its mind.
When I examined a drunkard, his liver had screamed from inside him, “Half a bottle of whiskey and two beers every day! Look at me! I’m so dark and shriveled, I practically look like beef jerky soaked in bourbon!”
When I examined a woman who had been struggling to conceive, her uterus had lamented, “Her husband’s swimmers can barely move, yet he has the nerve to blame me for not doing my job?”
One night, after returning from a business trip, I accidentally touched Andy Croft’s wrist while pulling the blanket over him.
A weak voice immediately came from his kidneys.
“I’m running on fumes here. Three times a day, every day, for two straight weeks. Even a machine would have broken down by now!”
His heart chimed in right after. “Every time he receives a check-in call, I start pounding so hard from panic that I feel like I could break through his ribs!”
His skin was even more indignant. “That awful woman really went wild with her nails! His back looks like he lost a fight with a wildcat. She even bit him on the shoulder. Does she have a thing for biting?”
My hands shook as I pulled back Andy’s collar. A fresh bite mark stood out clearly on his shoulder.
That same night, I called a number I had not dialed in years.
“You once made me an offer long ago. I accept.”