Forget about trotting your malfeasant software into the Manufacturer’s office, or even into a medical fix-it shop. You’ll be as popular as a misfiring printer at a computer store.
It seems as if the entire society’s auto-immune system is falling down on the job. Perhaps I had just been handed another assignment as a canary in the mine. Here, strange bird: tweet this.
I turn and run out of the labyrinth, the walls shouting at me, “Take a look at platelet counts, the white blood cells! Any spleno-hepatomegaly (enlarged spleen and liver)! Radiation exposure! Copper deficiency!”
Probably my gimpy left knee was acting up from a long-ago accident which had broken the left leg at the ankle, torn up my back, crushed a shoulder and knocked me out. Who would notice a bunged-up knee in such a mess?
Okay: one, two…three! With a cry, I step out of the grave. “I am Zombie. Hear me moan. The blood I want must be my own!”
It gradually dawned on me that it wasn’t the library job that had knocked me for this loop. I had ignored the increments of trouble brewing in the pot of my life. Now it was impossible to deny the pot was boiling.