Page 75 of Blind Prophet

“Hello!”

A door opens at the end of the corridor, and a young man and woman in business casual attire exit. If Dad had his way, everyone would be in business suits, but we broke him of that policy years ago. It’s too hard to find nursing staff willing to either live on-site or commute to the property. The cleaning staff doesn’t wear uniforms either, but we have them avoid him so they don’t cross paths.

Based on the flush of the woman’s cheeks, it’s clear why these two weren’t with my father. I don’t care about fraternization, but they need to do their fucking job.

“Mr. Moore,” the young man says.

I should probably know his name. But I’m bad with the homecare staff, as we source them through an agency. It’s a revolving door.

“My father had an incident.”

“Is he hurt?” The woman’s eyes widen, and her fingers go to her mouth.

“He soiled himself.”

I hate saying those words. He’s got the world’s best doctors, and they’ve done shit to prevent his decline.

She nods.

“We’ll handle it,” she says, flattening her hands across her middle.

She’s right to look nervous. If he had hurt himself, it would be her fault. I hire round-the-clock care for a reason.

“Are you leaving now?”

“Yes. I left a…” Friend is on the tip of my lips, but I won’t diminish Caroline. “My wife is with him now. We’ll get out of your way.”

“Dr. Suresh is due in thirty minutes. For another treatment.”

Every week, my father undergoes experimental stem cell treatments. He’s on Dr. Suresh’s cutting-edge protocol—a combination of targeted immunotherapy and neural regeneration techniques that cost more than most companies’ annual R&D budgets. The goal is to extend longevity, sharpen his mental acuity, and slow the progression of his dementia. The FDA hasn’t approved it yet, but when you have the resources we do, you get first access to the most promising treatments.

I have no idea if it’s helping or hurting. But Dad chose this course years ago, and he places all his trust in his treatment team.

“Is he still handling the treatments well?”

“Yes. This course is better. The nausea has abated.”

“He looks like he’s lost weight.”

“He has,” she agrees, positioning herself next to me while the young man falls behind us. “His comprehensive annual physical is scheduled in two weeks.”

“We’ll know if anything is causing his weight loss then,” I say, filling in what she’s not saying.

“Yes, sir.”

I open the door and am taken aback by the scene before me. Caroline’s hand rests over my father’s. She’s sitting next to him, and he’s entranced.

Yes, Dad, she is beautiful.

“Mr. Moore, it’s time for your next meeting.” The woman’s bright tone catches his attention. He breaks away from Caroline’s touch and lifts his hand to point. His fingers tremble, and his forehead wrinkles in confusion.

“What meeting do I have?”

I really need to talk to his medical team. How can we expect him to keep things straight when people lie after I’ve corrected him?

The woman takes his hand and guides him out of the room. Physically, he’s in great shape for his age. The two knee replacements and double hip replacement he endured during his seventies are still holding up.

I don’t know what process she goes through to clean him up, and I don’t want to know. When he comes back, he’ll be disoriented. Understandably. He’s a powerful man, yet he loses control of his bowel movements. His mind weaves in and out of the present. His conversation weaves. A random person might not notice, but I do. This isn’t the future he wanted.

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