Day 2 - T Minus 1 Hour -

“I could only scrape up four hundred fifty.” Mrs. Englehardt’s normally timid features were tucked behind an ill fitting mask of resolve. Obviously, Mr. Englehardt had pitched a mighty tantrum at the cost of his candy loving son’s dental care.

“Fine.” Dorian could care less. The children’s boots she’d delivered were finely crafted. He couldn’t stop looking at the tiny red pair that would be offered to Haddie. He held out a hand as the cash stacked it’s way to the new accord. “Do try tah keep that boy outta the confectioner’s shop,” he cautioned her. “Ah don’t want tah be extractin’ teeth next year.”

He checked his schedule. Only one left…Elmer Gerston. Extraction. The man had not shown yet. Dorian headed for the ad hoc treatment room in the guest suite with an eye toward clearing his materials out. He understood young Gill had taken as job as cabin boy. Gill would doubtless want to clean the room soon. Just as he was opening the suite’s door, Jacy appeared. She’d been sweating, he noted. Riley might approve…

Jacey: *“I know you are a busy man Dorian, especially in these last few pre-flight hours. If I’d brought this to your attention during our shower talk you may have found a more suitable time to address it, but now is the time. I need you to speak with Dillon’s personal doctor, he’s the latest passenger to come aboard; by the name of Doctor Samson Merchante.”*

As she delivered a breathless telling of her interactions with the man, Dorian searched his memory in a futile attempt to recall this “Dr. Merchante.” She tore through the account…her opinions regarding Dillon’s sense of self vs. the doctor’s overriding concerns.

Jacy: *“…multiple organ transplants…”*

He did a double take, his eyes hardening as Jacy blustered through what she perceived as a slight.

Jacy: *“Doctor Merchante seemed to prefer to consider me more or less a pair of walking tits. Honestly, Dorian, are they that distracting?”*

“Don’t play with me!” he roared, grasping her forearms. “*Liǎng zhī yīnjīng gǒu de érzi…*Jacy, listen carefully. This Dr. Merchante…he doesn’t leave this boat without me seein’ him. Get tha other deckhands. Get Dimitri an’ his gun if yah have tah…*dohn mah?*”

“Fuck me runnin’,” the medic swore under his breath as he turned for the infirmary.

*…multiple organ transplants…*

The drug therapies alone would be extensive, and of course, nothing of what might reside in the stock of a Firefly among the outer planets. “Nor tha outer planets, fah that matter,” Dorian muttered to himself. *“Liǎng zhī yīnjīng gǒu de érzi.”*

Just to be safe, he pawed through the apothecary cabinet in a vain search for anything that might serve as an anti-rejection treatment. “He coulda told us on Persephone,” Dorian whispered, “where Ah found mahself standin’ over a whole gorram coffin full of sophisticated drugs. Hell, Ah coulda brought tha coffin along! He’ll be usin’ that soon enough, too...”

He understood Jacy’s motivations here, in the interests of Dillon’s quality of life. But given the longterm viability of organ transplants…especially depending upon the type of organs, this kid was headed into the rim with any number of time bombs ticking away inside him. Which led, of course, to the question Dorian had to know above all else.

He picked up the ship’s intercom mic. “Dillon Forst, Dillon Forst,” he said, “drop what’cha doing and come to tha infirmary. Right. Now.”