Stretched out flat on his back and spread-eagle—or as spread-eagle as a Gila could be—he wore a choke collar chaining his lolling head to the operating table. Sure, Bob was poisonous, but he’d been knocked out cold fewer than thirty minutes ago, and the thickness of the chain seemed a little excessive, especially when combined with the intern that hovered around Antonio’s shoulder as if Godzilla were in the room, his eyes rolling over his surgical mask toward Bob’s head about once every ten seconds. From nose to tail, Bob measured one foot and ten inches. Scary stuff. True, his claws and teeth were both wickedly curved, razor-sharp miniature scythes, but the shy lizard only used them when he was forced into a corner or—probably—when he woke up in an operating room surrounded by three blue humans with knives.“He’s out cold. Vitals are low and completely stable.” Meg glanced at the computer where Bob’s SAMs were displayed, the graphs and charts blipping out new data points in a steady line with no significant variation.
