The recovery room was dim. Malcolm Fotheringham blinked his eyes open, fighting the grogginess of the anesthesia. The pain in his side was sharp, a physical reminder of the surgery.
He turned his head slowly to the left.
In the bed next to him, William lay asleep. He looked pale, hooked up to more monitors than Malcolm was.
Malcolm stared at his brother. For thirty years, he had looked at William’s face in newspapers and felt a corrosive acid of envy. He had hated him for stealing the life Malcolm believed was his.
But now, as he breathed in without the sickening vertigo of kidney failure, he felt something else. He felt the steady rhythm of a new timeline beating inside him–a timeline bought with William’s flesh and blood.
The hatred didn’t vanish, but it was buried under a profound, confusing weight. The “Enemy” had saved him.
“You idiot,” Malcolm whispered, his voice raspy, a tear sliding into his ear. “Now I can never beat you.”