“You know I won’t break confidentiality,” said the voice on the phone.

“I’m not asking you to, Elyse,” said Dr. Brandie, pouring herself another glass of whisky. The ice clinked softly in the chilled glass, but beyond its gentle tickling, the dark oak study was otherwise silent.

“You were asking after details of a new client—no matter how well-intentioned you might have been, that’s just something I can’t do in any circumstances.”

“I know; fine, very honest and admirable of you. Your professional integrity shines. Just please, then, can you make an earnest effort to reel her in? To make sure that she doesn’t go to the press with that kind of crazy talk?”

“What I advise professionally is also something I can’t be influenced in,” Elyse said levelly. I’m happy to talk with you about your side—what you know, what you think, what you feel. It’s the least I could do for my old roomie. But what happens between me and my patient, in a professional setting? That’s a step too far, Laura. I’m sorry, but it’s a step too far.”

Dr. Brandie took a deep draw from her whiskey glass. A vintage so fine was meant to be sipped slowly, but the splashing mouthful she took was more like a shot. She swallowed, winced, and wiped her lips with her arm before noting that Elyse was waiting for her to speak.

“Fine. You want to know what I feel? I’m scared, El. Scared that it’ll all come undone. I can empathize with her—I see how much she loves her son—and I’m afraid that her worry might point the wrong way, turn the world against the KSE. If the funding retreats, the project’s collapsed. You can’t do this type of research without institutional backing, and big money investors loathe bad press. It’ll all… dry up.”

“Those are all natural things to fear, Laura, but you and I have talked at-length about stressing over things we can’t control. At a certain point, we have to—”

“Let go of the damn steering wheel, I remember the line. Heaven knows how many times you’ve told me that—how many times I’ve tried.”

“I noticed in your list of things you fear, you missed the most important.” Elyse—no, Dr. Schwartz right now—waited for Laura to fill the silence.

“My mom’s, well,” Laura said, voice breaking. She took another sip of whiskey and counted to three, reasserting calm. “Her illness… I’m not out of the woods, El. Fifty-fifty chance I’ve got it, too. If the KSE collapses, I collapse with it. It’s my only lifeline, my seatbelt. I can’t—no, won’t—wither away in a chair like she did. It’s not the ruining of my Nobel consideration that’s kept me up these past few nights, not the worries of professional shaming… if I’m being honest with myself, maybe for the first time… becoming what she became, more than anything… that’s what I fear the most.”

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Dr. Schwartz was silent, considering. At long last, she spoke: “As we’re friends, Laura, and I’m not your psychologist, I feel comfortable being frank and blunt with you. Your answer was valid—I can empathize with your fears. But when I told you that you missed the ‘most important’ one, that wasn’t what I was referring to: you haven’t even acknowledged the possibility that what Alexandra is saying is true. There’s the possibility that someone is going through the worse violation of bodily autonomy imaginable—trapped in a nightmare—and that doesn’t even make the list of fears amid losing funding. Can you imagine the agony that might represent to Brett?”

Laura scoffed, disbelieving. “Don’t tell me you’re on her side?” she balked, voice suddenly sharp.

“This isn’t a petty debate, a matter of sides, Laura. I more than understand your personal connection to this project—what it means for even your own health—but even just over the course of this call, I’ve seen your target-fixation on those fears blind you to the possibility that your project has harmed others. It’s like the possibility isn’t even registering. It’s like you’re so emotionally dependent on this project succeeding that any information to the contrary is rejected, ignored, pushed out of mind.”

Laura was stunned. “You’re out of your depth, El. What Alexandra fears is impossible. It’d be like fearing your calculator has taken over your computer. It’s just not programmed that way—”

“Don’t be reductionist, Laura. I read your whole paper—probably your magnum opus, to be honest—but a Kinetic ‘Semi-autonomous’ Endoskeleton is not just a calculator. It’s a thinking machine… an independent entity, almost like a symbiont. You know better than I do that it has deep access to the brain—that it assesses information, reads input signals, and makes decisions. Maybe something malfunctioned; maybe it’s an issue of alignment. You’ve bound it to the wellbeing of the body, and to respect the commands of the mind, but what happens if it comes to believe the wellbeing of the body involves ignoring commands of the mind?”

“All things we pre-considered and programmed answers to, El. Do you not hear how presumptuous it sounds to lecture me about the shortcomings of my project, after doing nothing but reading the published papers? Does that make you the expert over me?”

“This isn’t about expertise, Laura… it’s about humanity, and having compassion for someone who might be in pain.”

“Someone who physically cannot be in the pain you describe, as it’s scientifically impossible. The KSE is aligned, limited, and stable.

“For Brett’s sake, more than yours, I hope that’s true.”

Silence fell, driving a wedge between the two, and Laura decided she would not be the one to break it.

Elyse finally spoke up: “I can hear the wall in your voice… I’ve plucked a nerve, and I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped. I know the scan is tomorrow, so—”

“Betraying patient information now, are we?” Laura asked, immediately regretting the pettiness in her own tone.

“A lapse, I guess. Believe it or not, Laura, I can make mistakes sometimes. We all could benefit from reminding ourselves of that every now and again.”

Laura ignored the pointed remark.

“Just keep me appraised to the scan’s findings, yeah?”

Laura sighed deeply, swallowing the rest of her whiskey. “Yeah, El. I’m sorry—I know you mean well. We’ll speak tomorrow, then.”

She hung up. She set her cell phone down gingerly beside the water rings left by her whiskey glass. With a frown, she reached for a napkin, patting them away.

Then, with a scowl fixed to her face like a ratty sweater, she leaned back in her plush leather chair to stare at the empty walls, watching the clock count the miserable hours of the evening away.

The room swayed, but the alcohol had not yet kicked in.