All of the right diagnostics.
All of the right drugs infusing.
All of the right patient information available at the tips of fingers.
A clean white room with a hologramic entertainment center floating above the bed in Fowler’s.
Suple nanobots coursing through the veins, silently tweeting news of infection to other nanobots silently blocking the intruders.
A glittering scene of everything going right. Not much need for muscular lifting nor delicate palpation.
And there she lie – the tiny machinery propounding rhythmic streams of morphine to tame her breathing.
All her systems slow to their stop according to the symphony of medical algorithms.
All those electrons heralding memories of her fist kiss, her first loss, her first child…all just frost on a winter tree of dendrites.
If you were here now – like an invisible beetle in this room – you would see her as a pure-white statue: a once-living human being, given a loving death among the glittering technology, not a single person beside her in the pulsing glow.