Excerpt from The Night Guest by Hildur Knútsdóttir, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

She glances at the computer screen. "I see you had blood work done six months ago. Everything looks good there. But we'll run it again." Ásdís turns back to me with her full attention. She wears an expression that is at once concerned and kind. "With what I have here, I don't see anything to indicate a serious condition. Not based on your history or my examination. So, tell me, what are you concerned about?"

A sensation begins to stir in my belly. Warm and soft. And I realize that I'm weirdly proud of her. Ásdís is going to be a truly wonderful doctor. For a moment, I feel as though I am her mother (Christ), or maybe a grandma (Christ! ), who watched her grow up through childhood and then become an unbearable teenager who blossomed into an intelligent woman who attended medical school and now speaks to her patients with respect and genuine concern. I almost tear up.

And then, I remember the fear that had overcome me as I sat and googled my symptoms.

"Myasthenia gravis," I blurt. "Or…" I hesitate. Then I speak the acronym that's been haunting me over the past few days. "ALS."

Ásdís nods. I begin to sweat. Recently, I've been almost entirely convinced that I'm doomed to this future: experiencing my nervous system's gradual failure. I've wondered how it might feel when parts of my body stop working, one after the other. Maybe it starts with numbness in my fingertips. Then I lose control of my hands, followed by my arms. Then my feet. Then I'll lose all sensation below the waist. Stop being able to turn my head, speak, smile, blink my eyes. Maybe I'll learn to hold a brush with my mouth and paint a few pictures. Then my respiratory system will stop working, and I'll die.

Ásdís cocks her head. "I don't want to sound dismissive of your experience, but I have to say that it strikes me as… an extremely unlikely diagnosis."

Relief washes over me like the sea. "Really?"

"Yes."

"So, you don't think I've got some terrifying neurological disease?" I ask, just to hear her say it one more time.

"No. Of course, I can't rule it out, but I don't see anything to indicate it."

Another wave of elation.

Then I remember what I was going to show her. "What about leukemia?" I stand up and tug my

pants down, showing her the large bruise on my hip that had appeared overnight. "Don't you think it looks a little like spotting?"

Ásdís puts on gloves. She aims the tabletop lamp at me and leans over my hip. She runs her fingers over the bruise, so close that I can feel her warm breath moving the fine hairs on my skin. My god, she's doing a thorough job. It crosses my mind that I might be in love with her, which is a little ridiculous.

"Did you bump into something?" she asks.

"No, I woke up like this."

The bruise is the size of a little pancake.

Ásdís sits up and points the lamp back at the desk. I pull up my pants and take a seat.

"This appears to be a standard hematoma. But I'll add a white blood cell count to your blood work. And we'll look at your iron levels, of course."

Ásdís stands up. The examination has come to an end. She extends her hand, her grasp firm and professional. She's taller than I am, and yet I have this urge to pat her on the head or the cheek. I restrain myself.

Instead, I thank her and leave.

When I get home, Mávur is curled up on the porch in front of the door. The cat stands when he spots me, his tail rising with pleasure. I scratch him behind the ears, and he responds with a loud purr. He often tries to sneak in, but I know his tricks and am quick to shut the door behind me. By the time the latch catches, he has already lain back down, his eyelids drooping in the sunshine.

I know that the world's sorrows are both abundant and profound and that a cat allergy is perhaps insignificant in the larger scheme of things. But there is something so unfair about loving cats and being relegated to do so from a distance.

2

Three days later, I receive a text saying that I have a message from the health center waiting for me. I open the medical portal and am asked to log in with my electronic ID. Like every Icelander, I have my kennitala, of course, but I'd never linked my national ID number with an online account. So I don't have an electronic ID. Someone—I don't remember who—told me they were just a plot to force all Icelanders into a monopoly with a cousin of some Progressive Party big shot in perpetuity. Or was it the Independence Party?

Excerpted from The Night Guest by Hildur Knútsdóttir. Copyright © 2024 by Hildur Knútsdóttir. Excerpted by permission of Tor Nightfire. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.