Artemis Fowl I looked into the blank white hospital crib. “Will he be all right?”
There were two children in the crib. They looked almost exactly the same, with blue eyes and black hair. At least, Artemis I was assuming Artemis II had blue eyes. He was born with his eyes closed like he was supposed to. But his twin Orion was too eager to see the world. The only difference was: Artemis II was squirming and crying, but Orion was still. Absolutely still.
“He doesn’t know if he likes this world, or if he wants to stay in it,” replied a nurse, dressed in nerve-wrecking white.
“So he’s dieing?” Angeline asked bitterly. Artemis put his arm around his wife as she renewed the damp streakes running down her face. “You can just tell me he’s dieing, I wasn’t born yesterday.”
The nurse stuttered; she wasn’t used to people like Angeline. “Come outside with me,” she asked softly. The three of them steped outside. Angeline blew her nose.
“Orion is-” she was cut off by a loud bang in the hospital room. The poor nurse dashed, but Angeline got there first. She scremed, and the room filled with the agony of a mother with a missing child.
“My baby! Where is he? Orion, ORION!” Angeline started sobbing.
Sure enough, baby Orion was missing. “I’m sorry-” started the nurse, but Angeline interupted her.
“Good, because you will never, EVER be sorry enough.” She grabbed bolth of her Artemises and left.
“Angel, I am so sorry about Orion.”
“Who’s Orion? He never happened, Artemis, it was never ment to be. Orion never ever existed. Never.”