The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions Book 2) by Anna Zaires, Dima Zales Page A

Russian,” I say.
    “Who are they then?” he says to my dismay. I really hoped I could play the ‘getting shot’ card once more, and Bert would do this for me without further questions, but it sounds like I might have to go into this strange topic with him.
    “They might be my parents,” I say, and watch Bert’s eyes go wide with surprise. “My biological parents.”
    I give him the story of how, coincidentally , I also found out that Sara is not my biological mother. I explain that it’s a woman named Margret, whom I know very little about , and that my dad now also has a name—Mark. I also tell Bert that I plan to get my biological parents’ last names from my moms when they arrive at the hospital.
    “All right , ” he agrees when I’m done. “Text me their names as soon as you know . Also that mobster’s number and name. In for a penny, in for a pound. But you’ve got to do something for me when you get better.”
    “I can promise to try,” I say carefully. “What do you need?”
    As I watch Bert’s face, I begin cursing myself mentally for being greedy. When it was just the Russian guy I asked him to look into, he didn’t need favors back. Whatever it is he’s about to ask me, he’s looking for the best way to say it—which , knowing Bert, means it will be something big.
    “Can you ask Mira if she has friends she can introduce me to?” he finally says, his face turning red.
    I blow out a relieved breath. I thought he was going to ask me to give him a kidney or something.
    “I doubt she does, but I’ll find out for you,” I say, smiling. “If not, I will, in general, be on the lookout.”
    “Thanks,” he says, shifting his weight uncomfortably.
    I’m actually happy with this development. Bert finally found a workable approach to meeting women—asking me for help. It might work. I’ve always thought that Bert’s biggest problem with women had been a lack of trying.
    “I brought something for you,” he says, reaching into his man-purse-looking shoulder bag in an obvious effort to change the subject.
    He takes out a blue Gameboy 3DS and then a golden one.
    This is our little guilty pleasure. When I’m in the office for the whole day, and when things are boring—which is often—we sneak away to a meeting room, sit with our backs toward the glass walls of the room, and play video games. To our coworkers, it might look like we’re busy studying reports or reviewing financial statements.
    This love of video games is what initially established our friendship back at Harvard. Well, that and the fact that we were both teens surrounded by adults.
    Taking my hands from under the blanket that covers me, I use the incline function of my hospital bed. A few seconds later, I’m in a sitting position with a Gameboy in my hands. The IV in my hand feels a little funny, but manageable.
    We load the devices and start playing a goofy fighting game Bert brought for this occasion.
    “You’re only slightly better than this game’s AI,” Bert says halfway into the first round. This is his version of trash talk.
    I let it slide this time. There are so many things I can say. For example, I can point out that the character he chose to fight me with, Pikachu the Pokémon, is a yellow, goofy little creature that looks suspiciously like Bert himself. Or I could point out that he should be better at this game, given how much time he spends with games in general. However, that would be like saying he has no life, which is close to the truth for Bert. I wouldn’t be so mean-spirited as to point that out, plus I don’t want to piss him off until he gets me the information I need.
    So, instead of saying anything, I try to go for a thrust with the sword of my own favorite character. I play as Link, the silent hero from my favorite game series of all time, the Legend of Zelda. The hit lands, and Bert goes quiet, clearly trying to concentrate on his comeback.
    Soon I’m dodging thunderbolts as I catch Bert with