"Good morning, Jeff. How are you feeling today?" I asked, though it was obvious, Jeff looked awful.
"I'm feeling kind of bleak. I hardly slept, and the dreams were so terrible being awake seemed better. Plus, I am starving, and thirsty, and my shoulder aches. And last night, around 3:30 I swear I heard trucks, and equipment coming from the area right below my elbow." He looked sad, shorter and remorseful.
Jeff turned to Dr. Dawg and said, "I'm so sorry, but after that I had to have a drink, some small batch bourbon. You said not to drink and I feel terrible, but that was really unnerving."
"That's quite alright, Jeff." Dr. Dawg said, "It had to be traumatic. A little small batch bourbon is good for the soul. Not so great for the kidneys, but probably not too hard on radius, or ulna, I hope. Say, you didn't happen to bring the bottle with you did you?" Everybody perked up.
"No, I didn't." Jeff said and everybody drooped back down.
"Jeff, we are going to take care of this. We will get you eating, drinking, smiling and laughing, and enjoying and sharing bourbon again. It should not take too long, or cause you any pain. Please lay down on the table, as soon your 8:00 shift begins." Dr. Dawg said, kindly, thinking about the overtime prohibition from the board of directors, and the rain of terrible, scathing emails, and endless meetings that wait in ambush for the unfortunate fool that violated the rule.
We had worked long into the night assembling a platoon of tiny rescue bots. Retrieval and protection was the primary programming. It was tedious, arduous, taxing, minutia. Peering through microscopes. Assembling tiny parts. Working, worrying and hoping. Man, it had been a trial, and it would have been nice if Jeff would have bought in that bourbon. Is that asking too much?
When the 8:00 chime sounded Jeff was placed on the table. An IV drip was plugged into his arm. He smiled. Weakly, He sighed, softly. And a tiny army of rescue nanobots was inserted into his arm, right above the wrist.
Thomas stared intently at a monitor. Quiet, and thoughtful. There were too many to control. We had small squad leaders that were directed with keyboard commands. But the joystick was sitting on the table, by the coffee maker, behind the donuts. It is national Donut Day after all.
"What do you think?" Doctor Dawg asked me, softly."I think a bourbon on the rocks would be great."
"Not about that, though that would be great. What do you think our odds of success are? This is a new frontier, nobody has ever injected an army of rescuers in a person before."
Thomas said, "Shoot, Dangit."*
We turned toward the screen, and there was a wall built across the vein, It had several holes to allow blood flow, but it looked like poured concrete. Reinforced with rebar mesh. With machine gun turrets across the top. Little lights were flashing and the sound of martial music wafted over the speakers.
On the monitor a message flashed "you don't want any of this."
"Dang, this is going to be a long day." I said to Dr, Dawg. Taking out the tank platoon, and putting it in the syringe. "Somebody should run to the lab and get the tiny helicopter gunship squad. Just in case."
"And grab some bourbon." Dr. Dawg said, sighing.
*It might have been something a little earthier, but this is a family blog.
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