“Superbly written from first page to last.” –Midwest Book Review
“The Neurology of Angels leaves you questioning what you thought you knew about pharmaceutical research.” –Kids in the Suburbs
"A tender tale of persons who are frail and vulnerable – like most of humanity – yet who aspire to do what is right…It is not a depressing or sad book, offering no hope. In fact, it is just the opposite.” –Alvah’s Books
“A very important book, written at a very important time.” –Raging Bibliomania
*****
Cambridge, MA
#423—THIS IS THE ONE. Galen wrote the words into his notebook and yawned. He slipped the first slide off the rack and positioned it under the microscope, looking at it for only a moment before replacing it with the next. His eyes scanned the second slide, left to right, and stopped. Galen squeezed his dark brows together and leaned closer to the eyepiece. He increased the power on the lens then grabbed another slide and another. His breath came faster as he registered the discovery: the blue-stained tissue of the control specimens was marred with black clusters of dead cells, but the slides treated with formula 423 were spotless. With trembling hands, he adjusted the focus. Not a fleck of black on 423, just a blue sky of healthy tissue. The ocean rushed in his ears, and a memory of apple shampoo and caramel hair swept across his heart.
Arlington, VA
Elizabeth looked up. She couldn’t speak but pleaded with her eyes that the doctor not say more. She was sure that if she heard what was to follow however, the fragile seams holding her together would disintegrate.
The evening after the meeting with the genetic counselor, an unseasonably warm breeze blew over the back lawn, and frogs peeped in the distance as though winter weren’t coming. Sitting on her porch swing alone, Elizabeth felt more lost than ever. When preparing a legal defense, she had always found an angle, no matter how hopeless the situation. She tried to remember how she had maneuvered her brain to work that way, to consider her options.
Elizabeth’s hand instinctively shielded her stomach. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she whispered to her husband so recently in the grave and her baby so helpless inside her.
Washington, DC
Abigail’s words hit Eddy like a spitball. He immediately regretted patronizing her, but he just couldn’t bring himself to have that conversation. Not with her. He started running as hard as he could, in the opposite direction of Abigail, and away from one of the greatest fears shared by fathers—that their little girls will stop seeing them as heroes.