Cristina positioned the cold little arms of the first twin. The silence reigned again, dense and heavy. But just as the edge of the scalpel was going to brush his pale skin, Cristina took a leap back, drowning out a scream.
“He moved! His hand touched mine!” he exclaimed, his eyes filled with tears and his heart run wild.
“Cristina, please,” Federico sighed, losing a little patience. It’s a post-mortem spasm. An involuntary movement. You’re losing control.
No, doctor! Touch yourself!
To prove his mistake, Federico approached. He checked his eyes. Nothing. He took the child’s hand. Cold and yerta. He looked at the young woman with disapproval and slid her hand toward the boy’s chest to seek some unusual stiffness. Suddenly, the coroner was petrified.
His eyes opened excessively. He removed his hand as if the body was burning and, without thinking, stuck his ear to the child’s chest.
Beat. Weak, slow, almost imperceptible. But beating after all. And then, like a ghostly echo bouncing in the tiles of the morgue, they both heard a soft, dull laughter coming out of the little boy’s snatched lips.
Federico backed up, pale like wax. He took his hand to his own chest, as if he needed to confirm that he was also still alive. Cristina did not hesitate; she knelt by the iron and supported the ear.
“He’s alive! I told him!” he shouted, his voice broken by the impression.
Still in shock, the doctor turned his head toward the second twin. The impossible became indisputable in front of his own eyes: the hand of the other child, who hung inertly from the stretcher, slowly contracted until he rested on his own abdomen.
Beat. Superimal breathing. Another invisible giggle.
“The two… the two of them are alive,” Cristina babbled.
The coroner almost stumbles back. With his fingers shaking, he pulled out his cell phone, dropped his folders and scored.
