The moment the doctor cleared his throat, Eric knew it was bad news. Lana, his wife, knew it too. Though she kept her eyes on the desk, when the doctor moved to take his seat, she reached over and clutched his hand, tight as a vice.

Happy doctors didn't need to fill the silence. If there was something to celebrate, they'd have heard it the moment he stepped through the door.

All that remained was to brace for how bad it might be.

"Well?" Eric asked.

The doctor sniffed and fussed with his tablet. Mari's charts came up on the screen behind his desk, ghostly reflections of her rib cage, her spinal cord, and on a different screen, three-dimensional replicas of her veins and arteries, pumping blood much too slowly through her little body. Seeing it made Eric shiver.

A six-year-old should never be laid out like this, in a series of exams and charts. He didn't know why nature allowed it.

"We've finished her tests," the doctor said. "And it's exactly as we feared."

Lana gasped, but the doctor either didn't notice, or didn't have the courtesy to pause.

"Your daughter has contracted a strain of the 2077 Russian Nanoplague."

With a wave of his hand, Mari's charts shifted into a holographic model of her body, hovering over the doctor's sleek metal desk. Along the image scurried black dots, numerous as swarming ants.

Nanites, the microscopic machines Russia used fifty years ago to bring the world to its knees. Robots engineered for no other purpose but to destroy.

Eric wracked his brain for the slightest clue where his daughter could have encountered even one; but of course, if he knew that, Mari never would have contracted this sickness in the first place.

The doctor cleared his throat.

"I don't know if you need an explanation of what the diagnosis entails. If you like, our office has pamphlets --"

"We don't need a pamphlet," Eric said.

Though World War 3 was fifty years ago, a memory the young like he and Lana would never have, everyone knew the savage tool the Russians used to cripple entire populations. It was an elegant tool. Hackers of the early 21st century had used a similar idea to great effect: administer a virus to lock down a computer's systems, then hold it for ransom until the target capitulated. Transfer the concept to people, and there would be no war to fight. Entire cities could freeze in a day -- and they did.

Only the Russians held the key to return their victims to life, and though a global cure was a term forced out of them during their surrender, the infected countries could never quite cleanse the microscopic menace from their lands.

The US reported a few cases of the nanoplague every year, dutifully scrubbing down the infected's neighborhood, work, school, anywhere they might have set foot. Eric struggled to think of it now: a team of hazmat-wearing goons rummaging through their apartment, shredding anything that might be infected, erasing their daughter bit by bit.

They'd have to tie him down before he let that happen.

"The good news is that your daughter's condition is stable," the doctor said, his tone affected, cheerful. "That's a hallmark of the plague, of course. She'll remain in her coma for some time without worsening, so long as her nanites aren't disturbed. But..."

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"But?"

It was pointless to be this surly with the man, but what else was there to do when Eric knew exactly the words that would next leave his mouth? His wife couldn't find the strength to say anything at all, white-faced and crushing his knuckles in her hand. So he had to be the mouthpiece of all this pain.

"The nanites have had fifty years to mutate. While the Russians could once unlock their victims remotely, that is, of course, no longer the case."

Eric leaned forward in his chair.

"Listen, doctor. I appreciate the bedside manner, but our daughter hasn't opened her eyes in two weeks, and we know you've got no good news for us," he said. "Tell us what it's gonna cost to cure her, or let your computers tell us for you."

The doctor blinked. Eric knew the reaction well. His directness had won him a few rewards in life: a job or two, a slightly cushier apartment, a wife. But corporate serfs like him didn't usually talk back to the people above them. It got Eric what he wanted as often as it landed him in trouble.

Thankfully, doctors weren't known for their sadistic streaks; not most of the time, anyway.

So this one just cleared his throat.

"Very well," he said. "To cure your daughter, we'll need to bring in a nanotechnician versed in deprogramming this strain's mutated code. As you can imagine, such a service takes a rather long time. The nanites resist removal, their code modifies itself on the fly -- typically, a nanoplague cure takes several months of ceaseless work on the hospital's part."

"Which is expsensive," Eric said.

"Yes."

"More expensive than keeping her here in a coma."

"Yes."

Eric's wife sniffed.

"How much?" she asked. "How much do you need us to give you? I assure you, our corporate sponsor has a very generous healthcare plan --"

The doctor held up his hand.

"We've already checked with your sponsor. Unfortunately, because this plague is so rare, they're unable to cover the cost of hiring the nanotechnician."

Of course can't cover us, Eric thought bitterly. Twenty-seven years of his life he gave to that miserable corporation, breaking his back on whatever contracts they chose to throw his way, and when the time came for him to ask for something in return, suddenly there wasn't enough to go around.

"Our hospital does facilitate members of the corporate contract system, of course. But for such an expenditure, a certain amount of upfront payment is required."

"How much?" Eric's own voice sounded dead to his ears. This only ended one way.

The doctor fidgeted, wiping sweat from his bald brow, then swiped his fingers across his tablet. A figure popped up where Mari's hologram hovered.

$75,000.

Lana had held on for so long, bless her, but her sobs began at that. Seventy-five grand upfront for a family that barely had anything beyond a thousand dollars outside of corporate credits.

The hospital wanted them to purchase their daughter's life, and they couldn't afford it.

"We realize the cost is a little...intimidating, for those who subsist in corporate living," the doctor continued, again acting as though a mother's pain weren't inches from his face."In these situations, we often find that reaching out to friends and family on social networks can generate a substantial amount of support --"

"No friends. No family," Eric said. The doctor looked at him like he'd grown a second head.

"Surely, there must be someone willing to assist --"

"If you're not willing to assist us," Eric growled, "no one is."

Lana was crying in earnest now, not that either of them could acknowledge it without letting the tragedy overwhelm them.

"Mr. Reisch, you must understand. We would like nothing more than to see your daughter cured, but the technician can't go without his pay. Attempting treatment without an expert on hand could potentially trigger the nanites to consume your daughter's body. The risk is simply too high, and if your sponsor is unwilling to provide the reimbursement we ask for..." His eyes darted to the ground, "there's nothing we can do except keep her condition stable here."

How generous of them to preserve their daughter's body until they broke down enough to pull the plug.

Eric rose from his seat, pulling Lana close.

"We're going home," he said, low and brusque. "If a miracle lands in our lap, we'll be in touch."

The doctor muttered something in response. They could just as easily have walked out without hearing it, but the silence in the room was so taut as they stormed out that Eric couldn't help but hear his sharp intake of breath, and the whispered words that followed.

"There's always Corona," he said. "If a miracle is what you need, what do you have to lose?"