Read No Time to Die for Free Online Page A

late than never, right? She looked around the room at its starchy white walls and desk covered by an array of plastic gloves, tubes, cotton balls, and the harsh orange soap that carried an aroma of despair. The one photograph on the wall showed a sepia image of Half Dome, the gigantic rock at Yosemite. Zoe was reminded of her favorite ride at Disneyland, Indiana Jones, where in its climactic finale, the car lurches toward an oncoming massive boulder. Trapped inside a cave with no apparent exit, all seems lost—and even on second and third rides, this hopelessness had overcome her—when at the last moment, the bottom of the cave drops out to reveal the road to safety.
    Stuck inside this room now, with no apparent trapdoor in the ground, Zoe knew that this time, she really was about to be steamrolled. Was it too late to slip out unnoticed? To cling to the safe notion that she was simply an obsessive hypochondriac? Rather than gravely ill, perhaps fatally—
    A loud rap on the door startled her. She stiffened, bracing for Dr. Carlyle’s face. His expression would tell her everything. The door pushed open and he walked in, carrying a hefty file under his arm. Reserved, serious, he briefly made eye contact and nodded hello. His lips formed a curt smile, without showing teeth. The permanent wrinkle between his gray eyes looked deeper than ever. This was all wrong. She waited—hope dropping off by the second—for his cheerful welcome or buoyant handshake, but his earlier confidence that had so reassured her was gone. He turned around to face his computer and spoke with his back to her.
    â€œZoe, how are you?”
    In her mind, fire engines blared a five-alarm emergency through every neuron. I’m dying. It’s over. She wondered if she could find her voice, but then reminded herself that she had chosen this route. Reality . After so many years in hiding, she was going to claim it.
    â€œI’m here,” she said.
    Dr. Carlyle turned to face her and sat down on his black swivel chair. He glanced down at her encyclopedic file, licking his lips.
    â€œPlease, just tell me now if it’s curable,” she pleaded. “Whatever it is.”
    â€œI—I’m afraid not.” His apologetic tone was a death sentence. “Not that we know of, but—”
    She felt her jaw sag, saw his image blur like a fun-house hologram. All that registered was skin-prickling horror—her body’s blanket of dread ignited with an acid torch. His next words barely penetrated.
    He touched her arm. “Zoe, did you hear me?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s not what you think,” he said.
    â€œI have a brain tumor, don’t I?” she choked out. “I knew it.”
    â€œYour brain is perfectly healthy. It’s not what anyone thought.”
    She wiped the tears from her eyes. “What does that even matter now? How long do I have?”
    â€œLet’s back up a second.” His tone was firm, but not unkind. “I want to go over your test results. Are you with me?”
    â€œCan’t you just give it to me straight?”
    â€œThere’s no name for your condition, Zoe. Not yet. That’s why I want to go over everything with you very carefully, so you understand what we’re dealing with.”
    â€œHuh?” This was so far afield of her expectations that she almost laughed. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œLet’s go over your tests one by one. The MRI of your brain showed that your corpus callosum is not perfectly formed, lacking some of the posterior body and splenium that we would expect in a twenty-year-old woman, but your cognitive functions have remarkably continued to develop, if a bit slower than normal, due to the plasticity of the neurons and neuronal circuits.”
    She let his words hang in the air, struck by the bizarreness of using her frazzled brain to process news about her brain. Her head began to throb.