Excerpt from The Last Pilot by Benjamin Johncock, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

You don't sound fine.

I'm just saying you don't need to be here; I know you want to get back.

When did I say that? Old man said take what I need.

Doesn't matter.

Right.

How much longer? she said.

Want me to ask? he said.

No, she said.

What's the time?

No clock.

You not got a wristwatch?

At the base.

What time we get here?

Ten before ten.

Must be gone eleven.

Uh-huh.

You want to get going? she said. I can get a ride back.

Nope, he said.

I know you don't like doctors.

I don't.

So go back. I'm fine.

I'm taking care of you.

I can take care of myself.

Knock it off, would you?

You're not the one they've poked and scraped.

I'm just trying to look after you.

I know.

Okay.

I'm sorry.

Let's just see what they say, he said. Find out what the hell's going on.

I don't want to know, Grace said, staring up at the door.

Two years, you don't want to know?

I want kids, Jim; I want to have kids.

I know you do, honey, so do I, but, you know, it isn't always possible for everyone.

A ball lit, the buzzer sounded. Another woman stood and disappeared through a door.

How much longer we gotta sit here for? Grace said.

Harrison got up and walked around the room. He peered at posters of dissected hearts and warnings about liver disease. Ten minutes later, Margaret Anderson rose and, twenty minutes after that, so did they.

*   *   *

Mrs. Harrison, please, take a seat.

The doctor gestured toward a chair in front of his cherrywood desk.

I don't believe we've met? he said, holding out a hand to Harrison. He shook it.

Jim Harrison.

Bob Roberts, pleasure.

Your name is Robert Roberts? Harrison said.

Yes it is, he said, removing his reading glasses from his front pocket and sitting down behind his desk. Care to take a stab at my middle name?

Harrison glanced at his wife.

I'm just kidding; it's David. Please, sit down.

Harrison sat down.

So, Doctor Roberts said, tucking the stems of his glasses behind his ears and flipping open a gray file. We have some results. I'm sorry to tell you that our suspicions were correct.

He removed his glasses.

You have Stein-Leventhal Syndrome, Grace, he said. Anovulation; that is, absent ovulation, excessive androgens and, from the X-rays—he pulled the glasses back to his face—ovarian cysts; a pretty thick covering, looking at these.

What can you do? Harrison said.

Not much, he said, lowering his glasses.

Can you fix it?

No.

Why not?

There's no cure; it was diagnosed only ten years ago.

So what have you been doing for the last ten years? Harrison said.

Jim, Grace said. Do you know what causes it?

We don't, Doctor Roberts said. We think it's an anatomic abnormality; a disorder, if you will. The ovaries produce excess androgens—male hormones—and develop thick cysts that cover the surface, preventing ovulation. And, as you are no doubt aware, with no egg, there can be no—

I get it, Harrison said. Honey?

I'm okay, Grace said.

It's not something we know much about, unfortunately, Doctor Roberts said.

Wonders of modern medicine, Harrison said.

It has its limits, it always has. Stein-Leventhal affects maybe four, five percent of women; maybe less. Out of those, some certainly go on to have children, but they are ovulating, if sporadically.

Is there anything we can do? Grace said. Anything at all?

Excerpted from The Last Pilot by Benjamin Johncock. Copyright © 2015 by Benjamin Johncock. Excerpted by permission of Picador. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.