Pulse Check Quotes

I let her through. She checked Derek's pulse and his breathing, saying both seemed okay, then leaned down to his face. "Nothing weird on his breath. Smells . . . like toothpaste." Derek's eyes opened, and the first thing he saw was Tori's face inches from his. He jumped and let out an oath. Simon cracked up. I madly motioned for him to be quiet. "Are you okay?" I asked Derek. "He is now," Simon said. "After Tori jump-started his heart.

Bending his head, Kai pressed his lips to her knuckles. The plating had no nerve endings, and yet the touch sent a tingle of electricity along her arm. “Cinder?” “Mm?” He lifted his gaze. “Just to be clear, you’re not using your mind powers on me right now, are you?” She blinked. “Of course not.” “Just checking.” Then he slid his arms around her waist and kissed her. Cinder gasped, pressing her palms against his chest. Kai pulled her closer. Seconds later, her brain began registering all the new chemicals flooding her system. INCREASED LEVELS OF DOPAMINE AND ENDORPHINS, REDUCED AMOUNTS OF CORTISOL, ERRATIC PULSE, RISING BLOOD PRESSURE … Leaning into him, Cinder sent the messages away. Her hands tentatively made their way to his shoulders, before stringing around his neck.

If in the last few years you haven't discarded a major opinion or acquired a new one, check your pulse. You may be dead

I don't take checks, but I do accept most forms of foreplay and sex as payment.

When someone says, “One last thing,” it never is. Unless they die right after speaking. Make sure that they do. 
Check their pulse to be certain.

Real love feels less like a throbbing, pulsing animal begging for its freedom and beating against the inside of my chest and more like, 'Hey, that place you like had fish tacos today and i got you some while i was out', as it sets a bag spotted with grease on the dining room table. It's not a game you don't understand the rules of, or a test you never got the materials to study for. It never leaves you wondering who could possibly be texting at 3 am. Or what you could possibly do to make it come home and stay there. It's fucking boring, dude. I don't walk around mired in uneasiness, waiting for the other shoe to drop. No parsing through spun tales about why it took her so long to come back from the store. No checking her emails or calling her job to make sure she's actually there. No sitting in my car outside her house at dawn, to make sure she's alone when she leaves. This feels safe, and steadfast, and predictable. And secure. It's boring as shit. And it's easily the best thing I've ever felt.

When a man you know to be of sound mind tells you his recently deceased mother has just tried to climb in his bedroom window and eat him, you only have two basic options. You can smell his breath, take his pulse and check his pupils to see if he's ingested anything nasty, or you can believe him.

You must never check for a person's pulse using your thumb, or you'll feel your own heartbeat. Actually, I plan on doing that if I'm the one who's here when Ruth dies. I plan on giving her my heartbeat before I let her go.

Every day, the New York Times carries a motto in a box on its front page. "All the News That's Fit to Print," it says. It's been saying it for decades, day in and day out. I imagine most readers of the canonical sheet have long ceased to notice this bannered and flaunted symbol of its mental furniture. I myself check every day to make sure that the bright, smug, pompous, idiotic claim is still there. Then I check to make sure that it still irritates me. If I can still exclaim, under my breath, why do they insult me and what do they take me for and what the hell is it supposed to mean unless it's as obviously complacent and conceited and censorious as it seems to be, then at least I know I still have a pulse. You may wish to choose a more rigorous mental workout but I credit this daily infusion of annoyance with extending my lifespan.

In other words, my pot doesn't work?" "It doesn't have a pulse," he says. "I have a pulse." Kimmie offers her wrist. "Wanna check?

If it’s dead, don’t go digging it up every five minutes to check if there’s a pulse. It’s dead; walk away.

dispatcher, Alfredo Suarez, had to check the weather.

Why have I survived? Because I am a creature more devious than all the other mes put together. Because I saw myself bleeding out and instead of checking for a pulse, I began collecting her things. I survive the desert like a coyote survives, like all tricksters do.

She stands on the cliffs, near the old crumbling stone house. There's nothing left in the house but an upturned table, a ladle, and a clay bowl. She stands for more than an hour, goose-bumped and shivering. At these times, she won't confide in me. She runs her hands over her body, as if checking that it's still there, her heart pulsing and beating. The limbs are smooth and strong, thin and sinewy, her hair long and black and messy and gleaming despite her age. You wouldn't know it to look at her, that she's lived long enough to look for what's across the water. Eighty years later, and she is still fifteen.

Oh! dreadful is the check—intense the agony— When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again; The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.

If in the last few years you haven’t discarded a major opinion or acquired a new one, check your pulse. You may be dead.

I thought about checking for a pulse, but decided that could wait. I kicked the knife so it slid under the heavy cabinet

She checked her Fitbit again and saw her pulse was now up to one-twenty. She chugged down the rest of her latte, anyway. Living dangerously.

I paid you five thousand instead and promised the balance only if you made the match. As it turns out, this is your lucky day because I've decided to write you the full check, whether the match comes from you or from Portia. As long as I have a wife and you've been part of the process, you'll get your money." He toasted her with his beer mug. "Congratulations." She put down her fork. "Why would you do that?" "Because it's efficient." "Not as efficient as having Powers handle her own introductions. You're paying her a fortune to do exactly that." "I'd rather have you." Her pulse kicked. "Why?" He gave her the melty smile he must have been practicing since the cradle, one that made her feel as though she was the only woman in the world. "Because you're easier to bully. Do we have a deal or not?" "You don't want a matchmaker. You want a lackey." "Semantics. My hours are erratic, and my schedule changes without warning. It'll be your job to cope with all that. You'll soothe ruffled feathers when I need to cancel at the last minute. You'll keep my dates company when I'm going to be late, entertain them if I have to take a call. If things are going well, you'll disappear. If not, you'll make the woman disappear. I told you before. I work hard at my job. I don't want to have to work hard at this, too." "Basically, you expect me to find your bride, court her, and hand her over at the altar. Or do I have to come on the honeymoon, too?" "Definitely not." He gave her a lazy smile. "I can take care of that all by myself.

There was something wrong with me. The human body doesn't want to get hurt. We're programmed to feel squeamish at the sight of blood. Pain is a careful orchestration of chemical processes so that we keep our body alive. Studies have shown that people born with congenital analgesia -- the inability to feel pain -- bite off the tips of their tongues and scratch holes in their eyes and break bones. We are a wonder of checks and balances to keep running. The human body doesn't want to get hurt. There was something wrong with me, because sometimes I didn't care. There was something wrong with me, because sometimes I wanted it. We fear death; we fear the void; we scrabble to keep our pulses. I was the void. What are you afraid of? Nothing ... I wasn't meant to live, probably. This was why I was wired this way. Biology formed me and then took a look and wondered what the hell it was thinking and put in a mental fail-safe. In case of emergency pull cord.

About time you woke up, lazy." Cinder glanced over her shoulder to see Thorne in the doorway. Cress and Jacin filled in behind him. "How's the hand?" "Almost fully functional." "Of course it's almost fully functional," said Iko. "Cress and I are geniuses." She flashed Cress a thumbs-up. "I helped," said Thorne. "He held the lamp," Iko clarified. "Jacin did nothing," said Thorne, pointing. "Jacin checked your pulse and breathing and made sure you weren't dead," said Iko. Thorne snorted. "I could have done that.

A few days later, Tuesday quietly crossed our apartment as I read a book and, after a nudge against my arm, put his head on my lap. As always, I immediately checked my mental state, trying to assess what was wrong. I knew a change in my biorhythms had brought Tuesday over, because he was always monitoring me, but I couldn't figure out what it was. Breathing? Okay. Pulse? Normal. Was I glazed or distracted? Was I lost in Iraq? Was a dark period descending? I didn't think so, but I knew something must be wrong, and I was starting to worry...until I looked into Tuesday's eyes. They were staring at me softly from under those big eyebrows, and there was nothing in them but love.

The only people who experience no resistance are the unambitious and the dead. If you feel no resistance in your life, you need greater goals or you need to check your pulse. Life and movement come with resistance. Don’t be discouraged by it, be strengthened by it.

If I'm not learning, check my pulse!

They came there regularly every evening drawn by some need. It was as if the water floated off and set sailing thoughts which had grown stagnant on dry land, and gave to their bodies even some sort of physical relief. First, the pulse of colour flooded the bay with blue, and the heart expanded with it and the body swam, only the next instant to be checked and chilled by the prickly blackness on the ruffled waves. Then, up behind the great black rock, almost every evening spurted irregularly, so that one had to watch for it and it was a delight when it came, a fountain of white water; and then while one waited for that, one watched, on the pale semicircular beach, wave after wave shedding again and again smoothly, a film of mother-of-pearl.

Slowly the shivers and shakes that had gripped her began to pass as her body warmed.  Leaning over Bill’s still unmoving form she reached out to check him.  He didn’t respond when she shook his shoulder and Rachel placed two fingers on his neck to check his pulse.

There was something wrong with me. The human body doesn’t want to get hurt. We’re programmed to feel squeamish at the sight of blood. Pain is a careful orchestration of chemical processes so that we keep our body alive. Studies have shown that people born with congenital analgesia — the inability to feel pain — bite off the tips of their tongues and scratch holes in their eyes and break bones. We are a wonder of checks and balances to keep on running. The human body doesn’t want to get hurt. There was something wrong with me, because sometimes I didn’t care. There was something wrong with me, because sometimes I wanted it. We fear death; we fear the void; we scrabble to keep our pulses. I was the void. What are you afraid of? Nothing. You are not doing this you are not doing this you are not doing this But my eyes were already clawing over the bathroom for ways out. Trust you? I wasn’t meant to live, probably. This was why I was wired this way. Biology formed me and then took a look and wondered what the hell it was thinking and put in a mental fail-safe. In case of emergency pull cord. I was crouching by the wall, breathing into my hands. Victor had told me once that he’d never considered suicide, not even for a second, not even at his darkest moments. It’s the only life we have, he’d said. Even when I was happy, I felt like I was always looking for the edges on life. The seams. I was so perfectly born to die.

shake tonight, quake and burn with every inch of her. My dick never felt like this in my entire fucking life. It was like I'd downed a handful of the blue shit, and the bastard in my pants was so strong he'd beaten my brain into a coma, taking full control of everything. Bad analogy, though, because I knew I'd need my pulse checked if it ever took a fucking pill to get hard for this woman. “Fuck, baby. You wanna get fucked right here, don't you? No bullshitting, girl.” I scraped my stubble across her neck and sucked the spot beneath her ear.

Gregori glided through the cypress trees, tall, fit,healthy. Even his clothes were immaculate. His hair was shining clean, tied at his nape with a leather thong. His silver eyes were clear, and once more his face was a mask of sensual beauty. "Gary"-the voice, as always, was of purity and strength-"please leave us for a few moments." "Will she be all right?" Gary asked fearfully. In spite of himself, he had checked her pulse several times. "She must be all right," Gregori said very softly. The voice was like velvet, but there was something in it that sent a shiver of apprehension through Gary.If anything happened to Savannah,Gary realized that no one,nothing in the world,would ever be safe again from the Carpathian.He hadn't considered that before,and he had no idea where the knowledge came from, but he knew it absolutely.

oh, he made it. that’s interesting.” he pressed two fingers to neil’s throat, checking his pulse. when neil tried to bat him away, andrew caught his wrist with his free hand. his smile was small and fierce as he leaned forward into neil’s space. “remember this feeling. this is the moment you stop being the rabbit.” - andrew

He grabbed the count's hand to check his pulse, and I held my breath. The count wouldn't have a pulse. Or a heartbeat. Or a breath.

If in the last few years you haven't discarded a major opinion or acquired a new one, check your pulse, you may be dead.

If you're not at least a tiny bit jealous at this point, you might want to check for your own pulse.

Don’t check my pulse to know I am dead or alive, check your pulse to know whether you are alive to face me

Do I need to check up on you guys later? You know the rules.No sleeping in opposite-sex rooms." My face flames,and St. Clair's cheeks grow blotchy. It's true.It's a rule. One that my brain-my rule-loving, rule-abiding brain-conveniently blocked last night. It's also one notoriously ignored by the staff. "No,Nate," we say. He shakes his shaved head and goes back in his apartment. But the door opens quickly again,and a handful of something is thrown at us before it's slammed back shut. Condoms.Oh my God, how humiliating. St. Clair's entire face is now bright red as he picks the tiny silver squares off the floor and stuffs them into his coat pockets. We don't speak,don't even look at each other,as we climb the stairs to my floor. My pulse quickens with each step.Will he follow me to my room,or has Nate ruined any chance of that? We reach the landing,and St. Clair scratches his head. "Er..." "So..." "I'm going to get dressed for bed. Is that all right?" His voice is serious,and he watches my reaction carefully. "Yeah.Me too.I'm going to...get ready for bed,too." "See you in a minute?" I swell with relief. "Up there or down here?" "Trust me,you don't want to sleep in my bed." He laughs,and I have to turn my face away,because I do,holy crap do I ever. But I know what he means.It's true my bed is cleaner. I hurry to my room and throw on the strawberry pajamas and an Atlanta Film Festival shirt. It's not like I plan on seducing him. Like I'd even know how. St. Clair knocks a few minutes later, and he's wearing his white bottoms with the blue stripes again and a black T-shirt with a logo I recognize as the French band he was listening to earlier. I'm having trouble breathing. "Room service," he says. My mind goes...blank. "Ha ha," I say weakly. He smiles and turns off the light. We climb into bed,and it's absolutely positively completely awkward. As usual. I roll over to my edge of the bed. Both of us are stiff and straight, careful not to touch the other person. I must be a masochist to keep putting myself in these situations. I need help. I need to see a shrink or be locked in a padded cell or straitjacketed or something. After what feels like an eternity,St. Clair exhales loudly and shifts. His leg bumps into mine, and I flinch. "Sorry," he says. "It's okay." "..." "..." "Anna?" "Yeah?" "Thanks for letting me sleep here again. Last night..." The pressure inside my chest is torturous. What? What what what? "I haven't slept that well in ages." The room is silent.After a moment, I roll back over. I slowly, slowly stretch out my leg until my foot brushes his ankle. His intake of breath is sharp. And then I smile,because I know he can't see my expression through the darkness.

Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals; My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels: Its wings are almost free--its home, its harbour found, Measuring the gulph, it stoops and dares the final bound, "Oh I dreadful is the check--intense the agony-- When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again; The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.

What you experience all the time is fluctuating pulses of feeling in response to your movement through the world, as you check whether everything is as you expected to find it - and as you try to close the gap, somehow, when it isn't.

PEACHES" I imagine even peaches have bad days, their fuzzy bodies plucked before their prime and left to rot on a kitchen tray, their pudgy meat soft to the touch-tattoo of my finger checking for a pulse—nothing. Tia Marisol spends her days at the stove stirring chicken broth into a copper pot; a flowered apron hugs her waist. There is no more talk about a lover coming to take her north. These days she keeps to herself, a seed inside a green-peach shell, hard, bitter and tart.

Someone came into the room. She heard footsteps, sensed someone looming over her, peeling back the sheet to take her pulse and check the bandage. “She may not make it, sir.” “She damn well will make it if I have to cross into the hereafter and drag her back!

The Government set the stage economically by informing everyone that we were in a depression period, with very pointed allusions to the 1930s. The period just prior to our last 'good' war. ... Boiled down, our objective was to make killing and military life seem like adventurous fun, so for our inspiration we went back to the Thirties as well. It was pure serendipity. Inside one of the Scripter offices there was an old copy of Doc Smith's first LENSMAN space opera. It turned out that audiences in the 1970s were more receptive to the sort of things they scoffed at as juvenilia in the 1930s. Our drugs conditioned them to repeat viewings, simultaneously serving the ends of profit and positive reinforcement. The movie we came up with stroked all the correct psychological triggers. The fact that it grossed more money than any film in history at the time proved how on target our approach was.' 'Oh my God... said Jonathan, his mouth stalling the open position. 'Six months afterward we ripped ourselves off and got secondary reinforcement onto television. We pulled a 40 share. The year after that we phased in the video games, experimenting with non-narcotic hypnosis, using electrical pulses, body capacitance, and keying the pleasure centers of the brain with low voltage shocks. Jesus, Jonathan, can you *see* what we've accomplished? In something under half a decade we've programmed an entire generation of warm bodies to go to war for us and love it. They buy what we tell them to buy. Music, movies, whole lifestyles. And they hate who we tell them to. ... It's simple to make our audiences slaver for blood; that past hasn't changed since the days of the Colosseum. We've conditioned a whole population to live on the rim of Apocalypse and love it. They want to kill the enemy, tear his heart out, go to war so their gas bills will go down! They're all primed for just that sort of denouemment, ti satisfy their need for linear storytelling in the fictions that have become their lives! The system perpetuates itself. Our own guinea pigs pay us money to keep the mechanisms grinding away. If you don't believe that, just check out last year's big hit movies... then try to tell me the target demographic audience isn't waiting for marching orders. ("Incident On A Rainy Night In Beverly Hills")

It had rained without a break since the middle of the afternoon, when the skies had finally started to clear. Ari Thór didn’t make a habit of going to the theatre, but still understood the excitement behind a good production. Tension in the air could sometimes be palpable, but never as overwhelming as it was that Friday evening in the Siglufjördur theatre. But this time there was no production taking place and the auditorium was empty. What he and Tómas – both of them on duty that night – could not avoid was the body. There was no doubt they were looking at a corpse; but Tómas still checked for a pulse

They all watched as Genya checked his pulse, his breathing. She shook her head. “Zoya,” said Sturmhond. His voice had the ring of command. Zoya sighed and pushed up her sleeves. “Unbutton his shirt.” “What are you doing?” Kaz asked as Genya undid Kuwei’s remaining buttons. His chest was narrow, his ribs visible, all of it spattered with the pig’s blood they’d encased in the wax bladder. “I’m either going to wake up his heart or cook him from the inside out,” said Zoya. “Stand back.” They did their best to obey in the cramped space. “What exactly does she mean by that?” Kaz asked Nina. “I’m not sure,” Nina admitted. Zoya had her hands out and her eyes closed. The air felt suddenly cool and moist. Inej inhaled deeply. “It smells like a storm.” Zoya opened her eyes and brought her hands together as if in prayer, rubbing her palms against each other briskly. Nina felt the pressure drop, tasted metal on her tongue. “I think … I think she’s summoning lightning.” “Is that safe?” asked Inej. “Not remotely,” said Sturmhond. “Has she at least done it before?” said Kaz. “For this purpose?” asked Sturmhond. “I’ve seen her do it twice. It worked splendidly. Once.” His voice was oddly familiar, and Nina had the sense they’d met before. “Ready?” Zoya asked. Genya shoved a thickly folded piece of fabric between Kuwei’s teeth and stepped back. With a shudder, Nina realized it was to keep him from biting his tongue. “I really hope she gets this right,” murmured Nina. “Not as much as Kuwei does,” said Kaz. “It’s tricky,” said Sturmhond. “Lightning doesn’t like a master. Zoya’s putting her own life at risk too.” “She didn’t strike me as the type,” Kaz said. “You’d be surprised,” Nina and Sturmhond replied in unison. Again, Nina had the eerie sensation that she knew him. She saw that Rotty had squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch. Inej’s lips were moving in what Nina knew must be a prayer. A faint blue glow crackled between Zoya’s palms. She took a deep breath and slapped them down on Kuwei’s chest.

Hi, you’ve reached 555-3080,” Cassandra’s voice says. “Please leave your name and number, the date and time of your call, the purpose of your call, your religious persuasion, political affiliation, NRA membership status, IQ, resting pulse, and whether a spot check of your freezer would reveal fillets of any upper-trophic-level fish, and I’ll call you back. Bye.

Its very pulse, if I may use the word, was like no other clock. It did not mark the flight of every moment with a gentle second stroke, as though it would check old Time, and have him stay his pace in pity, but measured it with one sledge-hammer beat, as if its business were to crush the seconds as they came trooping on, and remorselessly to clear a path before the Day of Judgement.

There had been no possibility that he had survived. His body had not tumbled into a foaming sea or into a clouded abyss from which he might later make an unexpected return through the good offices of kindly dolphins or giant eagles. Cabal had himself checked that all life was extinguished by searching for a pulse, looking for clouding on a mirror held to the corpse’s mouth, and by kicking repeatedly.

Barry crouches down to Cassie’s corpse and checks her pulse. “She’s dead.” Tobias frowns like a child just kicked his shin. “Of course she’s dead. Are your eyes working? Her brain is splattered on the ground, you fucking idiot.” Barry mutters to himself then looks up at Kade’s dad. “I was just stating a fact.” “A useless fact,” he counters. “Any others? You want to tell me the sky is blue while you’re at it?

They came there regularly every evening drawn by some need. It was as if the water floated off and set sailing thoughts which had grown stagnant on dry land, and gave to their bodies even some sort of physical relief. First, the pulse of colour flooded the bay with blue, and the heart expanded with it and the body swam, only the next instant to be checked and chilled by the prickly blackness on the ruffled waves.

Later than usual one summer morning in 1984, Zoyd Wheeler drifted awake in sunlight through a creeping fig that hung in the window, with a squadron of blue jays stomping around on the roof. In his dreams these had been carrier pigeons from someplace far across the ocean, landing and taking off again one by one, each bearing a message for him, but none of whom, light pulsing in the wings, he could ever quite get to in time. He understood it to be another deep nudge from forces unseen, almost surely connected with the letter that had come along with his latest mental-disability check, reminding him that unless he did something publicly crazy before a date now less than a week away, he would no longer qualify for benefits. He groaned out of bed. Somewhere down the hill hammers and saws were busy and country music was playing out of somebody's truck radio. Zoyd was out of smokes.

A friend tells the story of seeing percussionist Milford Graves perform a solo concert. Before the music commenced, Graves asked for someone from the audience to come up and help him with a demonstration. A young man volunteered, made his way onstage and stood facing the performer. Graves held out both wrists and asked the man to check his pulse, which was verified as normal. Then the drummer closed his eyes, concentrated, and halted his pulse—as the volunteer confirmed, in expectant delight. Relaxing, the regular pulse reappeared and the enlisted man released Graves's wrists. "No, no. Wait a minute," smiled Graves, holding his arms as they were, stock still. The assistant took ahold of Graves's wrists, once again feeling for a pulse. Once again, Graves closed his eyes and concentrated deeply. Some time passed, with the audience, volunteer, and graves absolutely hushed in anticipation. Suddenly, the man jerked away in disbelief, "My God, they're not beating together!" he exclaimed. Graves quickly took a seat at his kit and began to play.

That much hope had brought Max to his knees. Apparently if he didn’t let himself weep like a little girl to relieve this emotional pressure building inside of him, he was in danger of hitting the ground in a dead faint. Jules crouched beside him, checking for his pulse. “Are you okay? You’re not, like, having a heart attack or a stroke, are you?” “Fuck you,” Max managed, swatting his hand away. “I’m not that old.” “If you really think heart disease is about age, then you definitely need to make an appointment with a cardiologist, like tomorrow—” “I just . . . tripped,” Max said, but when he tried to get up, he found he still hadn’t regained his equilibrium. Shit. “Or maybe you needed to get on your knees to pray,” Jules said as Max put his head down and waited for the dizziness to pass. “That excuse sounds a little more believable, if you want to know the truth. ‘Hello God? It’s me, Max. I know I’ve been lax in my attention to You over the past forty-mmph years, but if You give me a second chance, I’ll make absolutely certain this time around I’ll tell Gina just how much I love her. Because withholding that information sure as hell didn’t do either of us one bit of good, now did it?’” “I did what I—“ Max stopped himself. To hell with that. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.” “That’s right, you don’t.” Jules ignored Max’s attempt to push him away, and helped him to his feet. “But you might want to work up some kind of Forgive-Me-For-Being-a-Butthead speech for when you come face to face with Gina. Although, I’ve got to admit that the falling to the knees thing might make an impact. You’ll definitely get big points for drama.

I am crawling like one of those children who pulled coal wagons in the depths of the earth. I am on my hands and knees and listening to the boom boom above, or is it my pulse, my heart? I don’t know. I must pull this weight strapped behind me, this cart filled with my own fears and inadequacies, and if there is a way out, perhaps I will find it, but not until my hands and knees have worn away the sadness in me, sadness so deep that a whale could swim in its waters and never be found. I do not know anymore what is inside and what is outside. Am I inside the whale or is the whale inside me? He is the largest mammal on the planet. He is a mammal, not a fish. He is a mammal like me. He is me, this whale. Wait. Slowly I stopped thinking of bus-stops and supermarket check-outs and I began to think of spring waiting until winter has done its work, its dark underground work.

I’ll fill a tray for Mr. Thornton,” she offered, eager for any excuse to check up on the man and judge the severity of his injuries for herself, “and take it to the workshop.” “That won’t be necessary, Miss Greyson, but thank you.” Nicole spun toward the doorway. “Dar—Mr. Thornton!” She raked her gaze over his tall form. He moved a bit gingerly as he entered the kitchen, but that was to be expected after the abuse his body had taken that afternoon. No bandages in evidence, at least none that she could see. She supposed it was possible he had a wound concealed beneath his dark trousers, but she gauged his movements as he ambled to the table and didn’t detect a limp or any hitch in his stride. “Do I pass inspection?” The amusement in his voice brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. “That depends,” she brazened, lifting her chin. “Are there any hidden injuries I should be concerned about?” He made his way around the table, running his fingers along the back of each chair. “Such a personal question, Miss Greyson.” A teasing gleam lit his eyes as he steadily approached. Nicole dropped the bread knife and turned to face him fully, reaching behind herself to grip the cabinet top for support. “But you can put your mind at ease.” He didn’t stop when he rounded the table. He kept coming. Nicole’s pulse fluttered, and her grip on the cabinet doubled. “Except for a pile of bruises and some overheated skin, I’m fine.” He ceased his advance. Finally. She had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze, though, so close had he come. “I’m glad to hear it. Sir.” She added the last to try to force some distance between them. With him standing so close, all she could think about was that unexpected kiss they’d shared. Not the healthiest train of thought for a young woman who planned to leave as soon as monetarily possible. He was her employer. That was all.

Another howl ruptured the quiet, still too far away to be a threat. The Beast Lord, the leader, the alpha male, had to enforce his position as much by will as by physical force. He would have to answer any challenges to his rule, so it was unlikely that he turned into a wolf. A wolf would have little chance against a cat. Wolves hunted in a pack, bleeding their victim and running them into exhaustion, while cats were solitary killing machines, designed to murder swiftly and with deadly precision. No, the Beast Lord would have to be a cat, a jaguar or a leopard. Perhaps a tiger, although all known cases of weretigers occurred in Asia and could be counted without involving toes. I had heard a rumor of the Kodiak of Atlanta, a legend of an enormous, battle-scarred bear roaming the streets in search of Pack criminals. The Pack, like any social organization, had its lawbreakers. The Kodiak was their Executioner. Perhaps his Majesty turned into a bear. Damn. I should have brought some honey. My left leg was tiring. I shifted from foot to foot . . . A low, warning growl froze me in midmove. It came from the dark gaping hole in the building across the street and rolled through the ruins, awakening ancient memories of a time when humans were pathetic, hairless creatures cowering by the weak flame of the first fire and scanning the night with frightened eyes, for it held monstrous hungry killers. My subconscious screamed in panic. I held it in check and cracked my neck, slowly, one side then another. A lean shadow flickered in the corner of my eye. On the left and above me a graceful jaguar stretched on the jutting block of concrete, an elegant statue encased in the liquid metal of moonlight. Homo Panthera onca. The killer who takes its prey in a single bound. Hello, Jim. The jaguar looked at me with amber eyes. Feline lips stretched in a startlingly human smirk. He could laugh if he wanted. He didn’t know what was at stake. Jim turned his head and began washing his paw. My saber firmly in hand, I marched across the street and stepped through the opening. The darkness swallowed me whole. The lingering musky scent of a cat hit me. So, not a bear after all. Where was he? I scanned the building, peering into the gloom. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the walls, creating a mirage of twilight and complete darkness. I knew he was watching me. Enjoying himself. Diplomacy was never my strong suit and my patience had run dry. I crouched and called out, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Two golden eyes ignited at the opposite wall. A shape stirred within the darkness and rose, carrying the eyes up and up and up until they towered above me. A single enormous paw moved into the moonlight, disturbing the dust on the filthy floor. Wicked claws shot forth and withdrew. A massive shoulder followed, its gray fur marked by faint smoky stripes. The huge body shifted forward, coming at me, and I lost my balance and fell on my ass into the dirt. Dear God, this wasn’t just a lion. This thing had to be at least five feet at the shoulder. And why was it striped? The colossal cat circled me, half in the light, half in the shadow, the dark mane trembling as he moved. I scrambled to my feet and almost bumped into the gray muzzle. We looked at each other, the lion and I, our gazes level. Then I twisted around and began dusting off my jeans in a most undignified manner. The lion vanished into a dark corner. A whisper of power pulsed through the room, tugging at my senses. If I did not know better, I would say that he had just changed. “Kitty, kitty?” asked a level male voice. I jumped. No shapechanger went from a beast into a human without a nap. Into a midform, yes, but beast-men had trouble talking. “Yeah,” I said. “You’ve caught me unprepared. Next time I’ll bring cream and catnip toys.” “If there is a next time.

Will she be all right?” Gary asked fearfully. In spite of himself, he had checked her pulse several times. “She must be all right,” Gregori said very softly. The voice was like velvet, but there was something in it that sent a shiver of apprehension through Gary. If anything happened to Savannah, Gary realized that no one, nothing in the world, would ever be safe again from the Carpathian. He hadn’t considered that before, and he had no idea where the knowledge came from, but he knew it absolutely. He crawled from the cramped space and picked his way a small distance from the cave. The night noises bothered him, were strange and a bit daunting. Gregori gathered Savannah tenderly into his arms. Come to me, my life and breath. Wake and be with me. He gave the command, and even as he felt her heart flutter, he pressed her mouth to his throat. Feed, ma petite. Feed and replenish what you selflessly gave to me. Savannah turned her head, her first breath a sigh of warmth against his throat. She nuzzled closer, drowsy and weak from lack of blood. Her tongue tasted his skin, caressed his pulse. Gregori’s body tightened alarmingly as her teeth sent white-hot pleasure slicing through him. Slowly her skin warmed, went from ashen to a healthy glow. Her arms slipped around his neck, and she held him close, her body fitting into his, a restless ache of need and hunger. Savannah closed the pinpricks on her lifemate’s neck, feathered kisses up his throat to his jaw, then found the corner of his mouth. Gregori caught her head and held her still, his mouth dominating, taking hers with a need as elemental as the wind. “I thought I lost you,” she whispered into his heart, his soul. “I thought I lost you.” “Are you always going to be pulling me out of trouble?” he asked, some strong, unnamed emotion choking him, blocking his throat. A small smile tugged at her soft mouth. “Back you up, you mean.” He groaned at her terminology. “Je t’ àime, Savannah. More than I can ever express in words of any language.” His arms held her tight, sheltering her against his heart. She was his world, would always be his world. She was his laughter, his light. She showed him how to slip easily between both worlds. She gave him faith in humans that had never been there before.

I need to check your vitals, hon,” she explained. It had been several hours since I’d given birth. I guess this was the routine. She felt my pulse, palpated my legs, asked if I had pain anywhere, and lightly pressed on my abdomen, the whole while making sure I wasn’t showing signs of a blockage or a blood clot, a fever or a hemorrhage. I stared dreamily at Marlboro Man, who gave me a wink or two. I hoped he would, in time, be able to see past the vomit. The nurse then began a battery of questions. “So, no pain?” “Nope. I feel fine now.” “No chills?” “Not at all.” “Have you been able to pass gas in the past few hours?” *Insert awkward ten-second pause* I couldn’t have heard her right. “What?” I asked, staring at her. “Have you been able to pass gas lightly?” *Another awkward pause* What kind of question is this? “Wait…,” I asked. “What?” “Sweetie, have you been able to pass gas today?” I stared at her blankly. “I don’t…” “…Pass gas? You? Today?” She was unrelenting. I continued my blank, desperate stare, completely incapable of registering her question. Throughout the entire course of my pregnancy, I’d gone to great lengths to maintain a certain level of glamour and vanity. Even during labor, I’d attempted to remain the ever-fresh and vibrant new wife, going so far as to reapply tinted lip balm before the epidural so I wouldn’t look pale. I’d also restrained myself during the pushing stage, afraid I’d lose control of my bowels, which would have been the kiss of death upon my pride and my marriage; I would have had to just divorce my husband and start fresh with someone else. I had never once so much as passed gas in front of Marlboro Man. As far as he was concerned, my body lacked this function altogether. So why was I being forced to answer these questions now? I hadn’t done anything wrong. “I’m sorry…,” I stammered. “I don’t understand the question…” The nurse began again, seemingly unconcerned with my lack of comprehension skills. “Have you…” Marlboro Man, lovingly holding our baby and patiently listening all this time from across the room, couldn’t take it anymore. “Honey! She wants to know if you’ve been able to fart today!” The nurse giggled. “Okay, well maybe that’s a little more clear.” I pulled the covers over my head. I was not having this discussion.

Dr. Hobson (with Dr. Robert McCarley) made history by proposing the first serious challenge to Freud’s theory of dreams, called the “activation synthesis theory.” In 1977, they proposed the idea that dreams originate from random neural firings in the brain stem, which travel up to the cortex, which then tries to make sense of these random signals. The key to dreams lies in nodes found in the brain stem, the oldest part of the brain, which squirts out special chemicals, called adrenergics, that keep us alert. As we go to sleep, the brain stem activates another system, the cholinergic, which emits chemicals that put us in a dream state. As we dream, cholinergic neurons in the brain stem begin to fire, setting off erratic pulses of electrical energy called PGO (pontine-geniculate-occipital) waves. These waves travel up the brain stem into the visual cortex, stimulating it to create dreams. Cells in the visual cortex begin to resonate hundreds of times per second in an irregular fashion, which is perhaps responsible for the sometimes incoherent nature of dreams. This system also emits chemicals that decouple parts of the brain involved with reason and logic. The lack of checks coming from the prefrontal and orbitofrontal cortices, along with the brain becoming extremely sensitive to stray thoughts, may account for the bizarre, erratic nature of dreams. Studies have shown that it is possible to enter the cholinergic state without sleep. Dr. Edgar Garcia-Rill of the University of Arkansas claims that meditation, worrying, or being placed in an isolation tank can induce this cholinergic state. Pilots and drivers facing the monotony of a blank windshield for many hours may also enter this state. In his research, he has found that schizophrenics have an unusually large number of cholinergic neurons in their brain stem, which may explain some of their hallucinations. To make his studies more efficient, Dr. Allan Hobson had his subjects put on a special nightcap that can automatically record data during a dream. One sensor connected to the nightcap registers the movements of a person’s head (because head movements usually occur when dreams end). Another sensor measures movements of the eyelids (because REM sleep causes eyelids to move). When his subjects wake up, they immediately record what they dreamed about, and the information from the nightcap is fed into a computer. In this way, Dr. Hobson has accumulated a vast amount of information about dreams. So what is the meaning of dreams? I asked him. He dismisses what he calls the “mystique of fortune-cookie dream interpretation.” He does not see any hidden message from the cosmos in dreams. Instead, he believes that after the PGO waves surge from the brain stem into the cortical areas, the cortex is trying to make sense of these erratic signals and winds up creating a narrative out of them: a dream.

Truth or dare,” I ask, my voice edgy with anticipation and yearning. I know he’ll answer dare – and it will be the last one I give him. “Dare.” “Fuck me,” I beg. He immediately rolls over, gently resting his body on top of mine. I spread my legs, positioning his trim waist and hips in between my thighs. The hard outline of his cock grazes the front of my panties, sending my eyes rolling into the back of my head. He slides his hands under the covers. His fingers sneak under the waistband of my panties. He sits up to slowly glide them down my legs, revealing body in the moonlight. He tosses them, dripping wet, by the side of the bed and the then slides off his tight briefs. His erect cock stands at attention once removed from its fabric confines, pulsing up and down in rhythm with Cole’s racing heartbeat. With the covers now cast to the side, Cole leans over me, devouring my lips. My lips open and I yield him my tongue, which he handles adroitly, flicking it with his own and sucking it with his lips. He leans over to the side of the bed and bends down, picking up his shorts. The movement of his body over mine sends the peaks of his deeply sculpted abs gliding across my soft skin, generating a shiver that trembles through my body. He pulls out his wallet from his shorts pocket and extracts a condom. He kneels on the bed and works the condom down the expansive length of his solid shaft. He imposes his body back over mine, covering me with his huge torso. The length of his cock rests against my warm pussy, throbbing against it. I wrap my legs around his waist and lock my ankles together, pulling him closer toward me. His rough, masculine scent fills my nostrils. He kisses my neck, the light stubble on the side of his check rubbing against my skin. I buck my hips toward him, pressing his cock against me. The bottom of his shaft rests on my warm opening, the tip extends up to my belly button. A delicious anxiousness overtakes me. Will I really be able to fit all of him inside me? “Fuck, Emma, you’re so sexy,” he moans while raking his lips and tongue up and down my neck. He nibbles lightly on my earlobe, his hot, staggered breath brushing against the side of my face. “I want you inside me,” I pant to him. He lifts his hips up and steadies his cock at the precipice of my slick center. He looks me in the eye, and I nod, imploring him to plunge inside me. He does. I shut my eyes as a brief wave of pain washes over me, the shock of accommodating his massive size inside. It soon subsides and my body comfortably accustomed itself to his presence. He slowly pumps in and out of me. I bite down on my bottom lip, waves of pleasure erupting from my center and traversing every inch of my body. My stomach is in knots and my breath is quick and sharp. Every time he lifts his hips to thrust out, my wet cavern craves for him to come back – and he immediately does, pushing himself back in, the length of his shaft rubbing against my insides, the friction driving me wild with ecstasy. I lose track of time as he continues to thrust in and out. I buck my hips against him, hungry for his full length. I tighten my grip with my legs around his waist, greedy for his body to press against mine. “Fuck, Emma, shit,” he moans. I can only respond with unarticulated moans of pleasure and gasps for breath. “Oh, fuck, Cole, I’m gonna come,” I announce. I shut my eyes tight and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him into me. He thrusts one more time, strongly, and my orgasm erupts. Pulses of pleasure shoot up and down my spine and turn my insides, my chest beats and my heartrate booms against my eardrums. The outside world disappears as I feel my body melting into Cole’s. Cole collapses next to me, a sheen of sweat glistening over his body in the moonlight, highlighting the twists and turns of his musculature. Slowly the world comes back into focus and a blissful

As I walk across the lobby, I hear a scream coming from below, coming from the Pit. It’s not a good-natured Dauntless shout, or the shriek of someone who is scared but delighted, or anything but the particular tone, the particular pitch of terror. Small rocks scatter behind us as I run down to the bottom of the Pit, my breathing fast and heavy, but even. Three tall, dark-clothed people stand near the railing below. They are crowded around a fourth, smaller target, and even though I can’t see much about them, I know a fight when I see one. Or, I would call it a fight, if it wasn’t three against one. One of the attackers wheels around, sees me, and sprints in the other direction. When I get closer I see one of the remaining attackers holding the target up, over the chasm, and I shout, “Hey!” I see her hair, blond, and I can hardly see anything else. I collide with one of the attackers--Drew, I can tell by the color of his hair, orange-red--and slam him into the chasm barrier. I hit him once, twice, three times in the face, and he collapses to the ground, and then I’m kicking him and I can’t think, can’t think at all. “Four.” Her voice is quiet, ragged, and it’s the only thing that could possibly reach me in this place. She’s hanging from the railing, dangling over the chasm like a piece of bait from a fishing hook. The other one, the last attacker, is gone. I run toward her, grabbing her under her shoulders, and pull her over the edge of the railing. I hold her against me. She pressed her face to my shoulder, twisting her fingers into my shirt. Drew is on the ground, collapsed. I hear him groan as I carry her away--not to the infirmary, where the others who went after her would think to look for her, but to my apartment, in its lonely, removed corridor. I shove my way through the apartment door and lay her down on my bed. I run my fingers over her nose and cheekbones to check for breaks, then I feel for her pulse, and lean in close to listen to her breathing. Everything seems normal, steady. Even the bump on the back of her head, though swollen and scraped, doesn’t seem serious. She isn’t badly injured, but she could have been. My hands shake when I pull away from her. She isn’t badly injured, but Drew might be. I don’t even know how many times I hit him before she finally said my name and woke me up. The rest of my body starts to shake, too, and I make sure there’s a pillow supporting her head, then leave the apartment to go back to the railing next to the Pit.

Next time, remind me to check for a pulse before I declare someone dead.

He couldn't stop himself from checking her out from behind. He kind of wished she wasn't wearing all that flowy stuff because he suspected there was something much more interesting underneath. Pretty women were one of his several weaknesses. There was something about long hair, shapely legs, tanned skin, smooth and soft... He couldn't remember the last time he'd held a woman, inhaled the scent of her hair, pressed his lips to the pulse in her neck. He nearly stumbled over a tree root as he imagined what Isabel Johansen smelled and tasted like.

I’m sure I don’t have to point out to you that there is one bright spot in all this,” Vara said. “Your fates.” “Our fates,” I repeated, feeling stupid. “What about them?” “There is a reason the fates don’t name names,” Vara said. “The second child of the family Noavek will cross the Divide. The third child of the family Kereseth will die in service to the family Noavek. My dear girl, you are the third child of the family Kereseth. And I suspect your fate has already been fulfilled.” I made a big show of putting two fingers against the side of my throat to check for a pulse. “Silly me, thinking I hadn’t died in service--” I cut myself off. But that wasn’t true, was it? My brother had tried to make me torture Akos, there in the underground prison where he had captured us and forced us to our knees. I had drawn all my currentgift into myself, trusting in my strength to keep me alive. But that strength had faltered--just for a moment, just enough to be considered a death. My heart had stopped, and then started again. I had come back. I had died for the family Noavek--I had died for Akos. I stared at him, wonderingly. The fate he had dreaded, the fate he had allowed to define him since he first heard it spoken by my brother’s lips…it was mine. And it was done.

I don’t want to go,” he whispered. “I don’t want you to either,” she admitted, hoping her hushed tone hid the thickness in her voice. She told herself not to pull him tighter so he wouldn’t feel how hard her heart was pounding. But she couldn’t help leaning closer when she realized his pulse felt just as crazy as hers. She didn’t know what that meant. But it felt like something. And she could’ve stood like that for a good long while, but . . . it really wasn’t the time for that sort of thing. She wasn’t sure when the right time would be—or what would happen when it was. But for the moment, that was okay. “Check in when you can,” she told him, not wanting to pile on too much pressure. “I will,” he said, clinging to her a second longer before he let go.

the “Luciens!” in the world wouldn’t bring him back. Charles approached, checked Lucien for a pulse that he did not find, and put a calming hand on Gretchen’s back. I hovered near the doorway, wondering about Pearl’s question. Just what did happen in here? At Lucien’s age, your chest can

He had checked quickly for a pulse and found none. That was why Tay had taken August’s backup gun.

Learning Plan Template Before Entry Find out whatever you can about the organization’s strategy, structure, performance, and people. Look for external assessments of the performance of the organization. You will learn how knowledgeable, fairly unbiased people view it. If you are a manager at a lower level, talk to people who deal with your new group as suppliers or customers. Find external observers who know the organization well, including former employees, recent retirees, and people who have transacted business with the organization. Ask these people open-ended questions about history, politics, and culture. Talk with your predecessor if possible. Talk to your new boss. As you begin to learn about the organization, write down your first impressions and eventually some hypotheses. Compile an initial set of questions to guide your structured inquiry after you arrive. Soon After Entry Review detailed operating plans, performance data, and personnel data. Meet one-on-one with your direct reports and ask them the questions you compiled. You will learn about convergent and divergent views and about your reports as people. Assess how things are going at key interfaces. You will hear how salespeople, purchasing agents, customer service representatives, and others perceive your organization’s dealings with external constituencies. You will also learn about problems they see that others do not. Test strategic alignment from the top down. Ask people at the top what the company’s vision and strategy are. Then see how far down into the organizational hierarchy those beliefs penetrate. You will learn how well the previous leader drove vision and strategy down through the organization. Test awareness of challenges and opportunities from the bottom up. Start by asking frontline people how they view the company’s challenges and opportunities. Then work your way up. You will learn how well the people at the top check the pulse of the organization. Update your questions and hypotheses. Meet with your boss to discuss your hypotheses and findings. By the End of the First Month Gather your team to feed back to them your preliminary findings. You will elicit confirmation and challenges of your assessments and will learn more about the group and its dynamics. Now analyze key interfaces from the outside in. You will learn how people on the outside (suppliers, customers, distributors, and others) perceive your organization and its strengths and weaknesses. Analyze a couple of key processes. Convene representatives of the responsible groups to map out and evaluate the processes you selected. You will learn about productivity, quality, and reliability. Meet with key integrators. You will learn how things work at interfaces among functional areas. What problems do they perceive that others do not? Seek out the natural historians. They can fill you in on the history, culture, and politics of the organization, and they are also potential allies and influencers. Update your questions and hypotheses. Meet with your boss again to discuss your observations.

An hour later, I check my Facebook page. Violet has written: “Arrange whatever pieces come your way.” My skin starts to burn. She’s quoting Virginia Woolf back to me. My pulse has tripled its pace. Shit, I think. That’s all the Virginia Woolf I know.

You weren't you back then. The look in your eyes got hollower, deader every fucking day I saw you, and I knew it was because of him. I used to sneak into your room while you were sleeping just to check your pulse and make sure you hadn't killed yourself when it all got too much." Her voice broke over that confession, and I could hear the tears in her breathing.

For some people, having confidence comes naturally. They do not know what it is like to be without it. But for others, they’ve never known what it means to have even a drop of it. I will tell you what it is like, to second-guess everything that you do—it’s a racing pulse and a mind that never seems to switch off. It’s checking something over and over again and asking for someone else’s assurance even though you know you are good at what you do. It’s hearing so many good things about you, yet all it takes is one slither of negativity and you bring yourself undone. It’s never knowing how to respond to praise without wondering if the person even meant it. It’s still waters, wanting to let a current take you forward over moss-stained rocks and out into the wonder of the ocean but having an eternal fear that the ocean will spit you back out. That you are unwelcome. So, for every time you are given the chance to instill even a drop of confidence in another, do it. There is nothing more beautiful than watching someone build themselves piece by piece, embrace the current of their life, rush to the ocean, and find their freedom.

Let's start by checking your pulse," said Dr. Arnzin, wrapping the cuff of the blood pressure monitor around Stanley's arm and inflating it. He glanced at the readout and nodded. "No pulse. Good.

He was husky, barrel-chested, and my age. The belly was a work in progress. It’s the name that was important. He was part-time tough, like I said. Basically he’s an accountant and works at a place downtown. He’s really dead?” “Well,” says Manny, “I didn’t check his pulse, but he was in two pieces.

While we were absent from Rochester on this eastern tour the foreman of the Office was attacked with cholera. He was an unconverted young man. The lady of the house where he boarded died with the same disease, also her daughter. He was then brought down and no one ventured to take care of him, fearing the disease. The Office hands watched over him until the disease seemed checked, then took him to our house. He had a relapse and a physician attended him and exerted himself to the utmost to save him, but at length told him that his {296} case was hopeless, that he could not survive through the night. Those interested for him could not bear to see the young man die without hope. They prayed around his bedside while he was suffering great agony. He also prayed that the Lord would have mercy upon him, and forgive his sins. Yet he obtained no relief. He continued to cramp and toss in restless agony. The brethren continued in prayer all night that he might be spared to repent of his sins and keep the commandments of God. He at length seemed to consecrate himself to God, and promised the Lord he would keep the Sabbath and serve him. He soon felt relief. The next morning the physician came, and as he entered, said, ‘I told my wife about one o’clock this morning that in all probability the young man was out of his trouble.’ He was told that he was alive. The physician was surprised and immediately ascended the stairs to his room, and as he examined his pulse, said, ‘Young man, you are better, the crisis is past, but it is not my skill that saved you, but a higher power. With good nursing you may get about again.’ He gained rapidly, and soon took his place in the Office, a converted man. 

When he was little, she'd stay late in his room, drawing pictures of him as he slept. She had fat pads filled with closeup sketches of his growing muscles, hands, and teeth, roughly rendered in black ink and charcoal. She wasn't trained or ambitious when it came to art; she was simply fascinated by her creation—not the drawings, the person. "This is mine," she'd say, checking Henry's pulse, looking into his nostrils, "This is me." She once counted his eyelashes with a magnifying glass and drew each one to scale.

Chris let go two stiff punches, connecting with Roy’s face. Roy unsuccessfully tried to cover with his arms locked in front of his face, then rolled to his stomach in an effort to hide from the onslaught. Big mistake. Chris punched him a couple more times in the back of the head. He slipped his right arm around Roy’s thick neck then quickly locked him in a half-nelson sleeper hold. After a moment of squirming, Roy went limp. Chris rolled him on his side in the recovery position. He checked his pulse and breathing to make sure he hadn’t killed the poor bastard. He was okay. Just asleep. Chris didn’t have a choice. This was serious. He couldn’t have a fool down here with him. They were potentially facing an enemy no one had ever faced. ***

What I saw was enough to make a nigga go insane. Breesha was laid out on the bathroom floor, with an empty bottle of Percocet on the floor next to her. I went to check her pulse, and I couldn’t find one. I

You reach a point where the only thing that can shock you is to come truly alive again. To meet someone who kicks the aliveness into action in you, triggering deep, buried, intense responses in you that you have forgotten. You long to be suddenly breathless, pulsing with life like a wild flower that had come abloom, natural and nothing held in check, swaying to the breeze in abandon and finding resonance in the other. In a world of the walking dead, where your own aliveness is but a dull and dying distant memory, the probability of that shock is very low. And, so you relax in lives led, content in everyday mundane, growing weary of spirit, stifling that small voice within that longs for that shock.

Eventually, at 7:22 A.M. on the morning of May 26, 1998, with tears still pouring down my frozen cheeks, the summit of Mount Everest opened her arms and welcomed me in. As if she now considered me somehow worthy of this place. My pulse raced, and in a haze I found myself suddenly standing on top of the world. Alan embraced me, mumbling excitedly into his mask. Neil was still staggering toward us. As he approached, the wind began to die away. The sun was now rising over the hidden land of Tibet, and the mountains beneath us were bathed in a crimson red. Neil knelt and crossed himself on the summit. Then, together, with our masks of, we hugged as brothers. I got to my feet and began to look around. I swore that I could see halfway around the world. The horizon seemed to bend at the edges. It was the curvature of our earth. Technology can put a man on the moon but not up here. There truly was some magic to this place. The radio suddenly crackled to my left. Neil spoke into it excitedly. “Base camp. We’ve run out of earth.” The voice on the other end exploded with jubilation. Neil passed the radio to me. For weeks I had planned what I would say if I reached the top, but all that just fell apart. I strained into the radio and spoke without thinking. “I just want to get home.” The memory of what went on then begins to fade. We took several photos with both the SAS and the DLE flags flying on the summit, as promised, and I scooped some snow into an empty Juice Plus vitamin bottle I had with me.* It was all I would take with me from the summit. I remember having some vague conversation on the radio--patched through from base camp via a satellite phone--with my family some three thousand miles away: the people who had given me the inspiration to climb. But up there, the time flew by, and like all moments of magic, nothing can last forever. We had to get down. It was already 7:48 A.M. Neil checked my oxygen. “Bear, you’re right down. You better get going, buddy, and fast.” I had just under a fifth of a tank to get me back to the Balcony. I heaved the pack and tank onto my shoulders, fitted my mask, and turned around. The summit was gone. I knew that I would never see it again. *Years later, Shara and I christened our three boys with this snow water from Everest’s summit. Life moments.

The company has recently made a push into the activity-tracking space — competing with Fitbit, Jawbone, Garmin, and others — with two devices: the Activité, a step-and-sleep tracker that looks like a regular mechanical watch, and the Pulse O2, a fitness monitor that can also check a user’s heart rate. I thought that I would find the activity trackers indispensable. But within a month I discovered that I didn’t have a particularly strong commitment to wanting to keep track of my daily activity levels, and I stopped using them. To my surprise in the end the product I now use most regularly is the one I was most hesitant to try: the Aura sleep-tracking system. The Aura is a futuristic-looking alarm clock-like device that connects to Wi-Fi and includes a sensitive, wire-connected monitoring pad that goes underneath a user’s mattress. The system keeps track of heart rate, time spent in REM sleep and deep sleep (based, in part, on body motion and breathing cycle), and room temperature (a recent update allows it to connect with Nest smart thermostats to adjust temperature for maximum sleep comfort).

I like to check my pulse before I get out of bed. No point getting up if I'm already dead!!

At the empathetic tone in Sean’s voice, Lotti’s heart and stomach and head all clenched in unison. “What do you mean you can’t give me what I want?” she asked. “All you have to do is walk away.” “Tried that already,” he said. “And it was the biggest mistake of my life.” He brought her hand up to his mouth and met her gaze over their entwined hands. He was looking at her like . . . well, she wasn’t sure what was going on in his head, but her thoughts were racing along with her pulse. “You’re incredible, Lotti. I hope you know that.” Very slowly, clearly giving her time to object, he pulled her into him. Her breath caught at the connection and his eyes heated in response as he slid a hand up her spine and then back down again, pressing her in tight to him from chest to thighs and everywhere in between. His nose was cold at the crook of her neck, but his breath was warm against her skin. She felt his lips press against the sensitive spot just behind her ear and she shivered. “You’re trembling,” he said, his voice low. “Are you cold?” “No,” she whispered. Try the opposite of cold . . . “Nervous?” “No.” Not even close. The way his mouth moved across her skin was making her warm all over. Not that she could articulate that with his body pressed to hers and his fingers dancing over her skin. She was literally quivering as the memories of what it felt like to be touched by him washed over her, as if no time at all had gone by. Yes, she’d let him think that their time together had sucked for her. But it hadn’t. Not even close. That long-ago night he’d evoked feelings and a hunger in her that she’d never forgotten. “I’ve just had a long day,” she said. “I know. I’m going to make it better.” He pressed a kiss at the juncture of her jaw and ear before he made his way to her lips for a slow, hot kiss, his mouth both familiar and yet somehow brand-new. She was so far gone that when he pulled back she protested with a moan, but he held her tight, staring down at her with heated eyes. “Just checking,” he murmured. “Checking what?” “That you want this as badly as I do.

I'll never tell him how relieved I was when I checked his pulse and felt how strong it was. Or how I immediately burst into tears when I saw a bright light in the distance, nor about how I swam the both of us there, only a piece of wood to keep us afloat. How exhausting it was. How many times I almost gave up, his weight too much for me, but my determination heavier. How much I cried. And how I refused to let him go.

can’t remember what it feels like not being in love with you, Calla.” My pulse pounds in my veins. He leans in, presses his forehead against mine. “I can’t remember what it’s like to wake up and not have you be the first thing I think about. Every morning, I roll over in bed to check for a message from you. Every night, I go to bed annoyed because you’re not beside me. Because you’re so far away. I need you in my life like I need to fly. Like I need this Alaskan air. More than I need this air.

Shaking her sister, Zephyr checked her pulse. Nothing. “Zen, baby, c’mon, answer me. Zen. Zen!” Agony, nothing like she’d ever known before, stabbed her heart, splintering it, scarring it, a piece forever gone with the sister she’d loved more than life. Zephyr wailed in her pain, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, until everything went black.

You’re both evil,” Reese said, closing his eyes on a resigned sigh. “Did you lose consciousness?” Aidan asked. “No,” Reese said as Aidan shifted his attention to Mikey and Sebastian for confirmation. “No, but there was a lot of swearing.” “I learned a lot of new words tonight,” Mikey readily agreed. Cracking one eye open so that he could glare at Mikey, Reese muttered, “Brat,” before closing his eyes again. “I already knew that word,” Mikey said, making him chuckle as he checked Reese’s pulse to make sure that his arm was still getting good blood flow.

1. If a client is found unconscious: a. Quickly assess first b. Determine responsiveness (apply sternal pressure, yelling) c. Check for a carotid pulse i. Spend no more than 10 seconds d. Make every attempt to acknowledge or assess for a neck injury i. If an injury is known or suspected, take whatever necessary precautions to prevent further injury

2. If no pulse is noted a. Call for help (Code Button, yell, call light) b. Send someone for AED or whatever equipment is available c. Begin chest compressions i. At a rate of 100-120 beats/min ii. At at a depth of 2 inches iii. Do NOT delay chest compressions d. During chest compressions, do not stop unless instructed i. Minimizing chest compression interruptions is ESSENTIAL ii. Push hard and fast iii. Allow full recoil e. Continue CPR in 2-minute cycle finishes i. Check carotid pulse ii. Analyze rhythm (AED mode if no ACLS providers present) iii. Use bag/valve mask (or other devices) to administer breaths after 30 compressions 1. 30 (compressions): 2 (breaths) ratio until the airway is secured

Wax,” Wayne interrupted, balancing his sixth story of beer-mat coasters. “Check your pulse, mate.” Wax took a deep breath. “Sorry,” he said. “What was that,” Marasi said, wagging her pencil from Wayne to Wax. “Pulse?” “Sometimes,” Wayne said, “Wax forgets he’s a person and starts thinkin’ he’s a rock instead.” “It’s Wayne speak,” Wax said, grabbing some coasters and starting another tower. “For times when he thinks I should be a little more empathetic.” “You can be single-minded, mate.

When tissues are dehydrated the lack of fluids can give rise to heat. This is called “hectic fever” in the old Western literature. It is described in traditional Chinese medicine as “phantom,” or “false heat,” or “yin deficiency.” The characteristic symptoms are a rapid, nonresistant pulse and red flushing across the checks—the hectic or malarial flush. Tension can also arise from lack of fluids. This is another symptom of “uprushing yang” from “lack of yin,” or “yin not holding down the yang.

If he checks my pulse, he’ll probably treat me for hypertension.

I don’t want to go,” he whispered. “I don’t want you to either,” she admitted, hoping her hushed tone hid the thickness in her voice. She told herself not to pull him tighter so he wouldn’t feel how hard her heart was pounding. But she couldn’t help leaning closer when she realized his pulse felt just as crazy as hers. She didn’t know what that meant. But it felt like something. And she could’ve stood like that for a good long while, but . . . it really wasn’t the time for that sort of thing. She wasn’t sure when the right time would be—or what would happen when it was. But for the moment, that was okay. “Check in when you can,” she told him, not wanting to pile on too much pressure. “I will,” he said, clinging to her a second longer before he let go. Then Biana helped him with his crutches, thankfully not saying a word about their lengthy hug as she reached for her brother’s hand and held her crystal up to create a path. Fitz’s eyes never left Sophie’s as he let Biana lead them forward, offering one last smile before he left. It was only half a smile. But she knew it was just for her. And she smiled back as Fitz and Biana stepped into the light and leaped back to Everglen. TWENTY-SEVEN FITZ DIDN’T CHECK IN THAT night.

I reach out to check for a pulse and there is none. Standing, I look down into the set of dead eyes and smile. My wife did that. “Amelia,” I finally answer.

Don’t like what I see?” Her back is pressed up against my chest, pulse vibrating through her body. “Winter, you have no fucking idea what I see. No fucking clue how hard I’m trying not to be another person who needs something from you. I’m prioritizing what life has thrown at us in the past few weeks. I’m trying to give you what you need. But if you think I don’t like what I see, then I’m not the one who needs his head checked.” I swipe her ponytail to the side of her neck and drop a kiss on the top of her slender shoulder. “Because your wellbeing has quickly become my number one priority.

Way to go Doc. Q: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse? A: No. Q: Did you check for blood pressure? A: No. Q: Did you check for breathing? A: No. Q: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy? A: No. Q: How can you be so sure, Doctor? A: Because his brain was sitting on my desk, in a jar. Q: But could the patient have still been alive, never the less? A: Yes, it is possible that he could have been alive and practising law somewhere.

I’m sure I don’t have to point out to you that there is one bright spot in all this,” Vara said. “Your fates.” “Our fates,” I repeated, feeling stupid. “What about them?” “There is a reason the fates don’t name names,” Vara said. “The second child of the family Noavek will cross the Divide. The third child of the family Kereseth will die in service to the family Noavek. My dear girl, you are the third child of the family Kereseth. And I suspect your fate has already been fulfilled.” I made a big show of putting two fingers against the side of my throat to check for a pulse. “Silly me, thinking I hadn’t died in service--

Coming to stand beside the bed, she looked down at him with tender protectiveness. His mouth was relaxed into gentle lines amid the bristle of his jaw. His lashes were long and as black as ink. Two small white plasters had been affixed over cuts on his cheek and forehead. The cowlick on the right side of his forehead had sprung up in a way he would never have allowed during the day. She tried as hard as she could to keep from smoothing it. Losing the battle, she stroked the tempting lock gently. Devon’s breathing altered. As he came to the surface, his eyes flickered open, drowsy with exhaustion and opiate tonic. “Kathleen.” His voice was low and raw. “I just wanted to check on you. Is there anything you need? A glass of water?” “You.” He caught at her free hand and pulled it closer. She felt his lips press against her fingers. “Need to talk to you.” Her breath stopped. A pulse began to throb in every vulnerable place of her body. “You…you’ve been dosed with enough laudanum to sedate an elephant,” she said, trying to sound light. “It would be wiser not to tell me anything at the moment.

I just wanted to check on you. Is there anything you need? A glass of water?” “You.” He caught at her free hand and pulled it closer. She felt his lips press against her fingers. “Need to talk to you.” Her breath stopped. A pulse began to throb in every vulnerable place of her body. “You…you’ve been dosed with enough laudanum to sedate an elephant,” she said, trying to sound light. “It would be wiser not to tell me anything at the moment. Go to sleep, and in the morning--” “Lie with me.” Her stomach tightened in yearning. “You know I can’t,” she whispered. Undeterred, he gripped her wrist and began to tug her toward him with pained determination. “Wait--you’ll hurt yourself--” Kathleen fumbled to set the candle on the nearby table, while he continued to exert pressure on her arm. “Don’t--your ribs--oh, why must you be so stubborn?” Alarmed and anxious, she climbed onto the bed rather than risk injuring him by struggling. “Only for a minute,” she warned. “One minute.

Slowly, very slowly, I begin to feel I am at home. Sometimes I step out-of-scene for a moment, checking to see if I find some shabby sense of farce about us. Are we used people pretending to be new? No. The most stringent pulse-taking always reads negative. We are not old. We are at that lush moment just before ripeness, the moment that love suspends in a soft, sustained note of rhapsody. In the cinnamon candlelight and a lengthening tenderness, we strangers live well together in the little dacha. As a couple there is some sense about us that feels like risk, like adventure, like the tight, sharp bubbles of a good Prosecco. Even when we bewilder each other, make each other screaming crazy, there’s a bright metal ring to us like the resonance of something gold and something silver tumbling fast across wet stones. It feels as if we’re living on the eve of a rapture.

Enterprise Social Networks allow leaders to get a pulse check on their organisation. They will read about topics, issues and solutions that no one would have dared to send to them by email.

Valerie checked Brandon’s temperature. “You know, I told that girl myself she’s nuts. You know what she said to me?” I arched an eyebrow. “What?” “She said, ‘Just because a man gives you the best sex of your life doesn’t mean you need to date his ass.’ Lawd, I just about died,” she snickered. I snorted. Yup, that sounded like Kristen. Well, at least I’d done something right. Valerie chuckled to herself while she checked Brandon’s pulse. “He’s coming out tomorrow. I bet you’re all getting pretty excited.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “This has been a really tough few weeks.” “He’s gonna do great.” She changed out the bag on his IV drip. Then she pulled out a small light from her breast pocket, clicked it on, and opened his right eye. “You know, a lot of the nurses are gonna miss the steady stream of cute firemen coming through he—” She paused. She opened his other eye and shone the light into his pupil. She cleared her throat as she clicked the light off and slipped it back in her pocket. “We sure are going to miss you guys.” She picked up his chart. She didn’t look at me. Her tone changed. Her body changed. I’d done that change myself on the scene of a call. Something is wrong. “What is it?” She didn’t answer me. I pulled out my cell phone and turned on the flashlight. I leaned over Brandon and opened his eye while Valerie watched me wordlessly. My breath caught in my throat. “No. No!  ” I looked at the other eye, and my hands started to shake. I stumbled back from the bed and knocked into my chair, dropping my cell phone to the floor with a clatter. Valerie looked at me, and we exchanged a moment of understanding. His pupils were blown. They were large black marbles in his eyes.

by some miracle – I manage to get him into the study. As soon as his feet have cleared the doorway, I pull him a little further and then I set him down. My arms are aching and I am a little short of breath, but I immediately reach down to check his pulse at the neck. Before I can do that, however, he sits up and looks at the open double doors. “She's still coming,” he says, with utter shock in his voice. “Look!” With that, he raises his left hand and once again points straight ahead. I cannot help myself. I turn and look toward the doors, but all I see outside is more rain falling in the darkness. I can just about make out the dark smudge of the summer house in the distance, but there is still no sign whatsoever of any human figure out there. “You can see her!” His Lordship shouts. “For God's sake, man, what's wrong with you? She's right there!” “Sir, I -” “She's almost at the steps!” I open my mouth to tell him that I see nothing, but for a moment longer I watch the darkness, just in case a shape suddenly appears. It is foolish to entertain such fancies, yet I do entertain them, if only for a few seconds. “Lord, deliver me from this horror,” His Lordship says, making the sign of the cross against his chest. “I will face my due punishment, but I beg you, do not make me face her, not like this.” Still watching the darkness, I begin to imagine – in my mind's eye – the sight of Her Ladyship coming closer and closer to the door. I imagine her in that stained and tattered night-dress that she wore when last I saw her, with her hair hanging down and her eyes filled with anger. She walks with her arms hung down at her sides, and her progress is steady as she reaches the steps. It is a most terrifying image but, as I quickly remind myself, it is merely something that I have conjured in my imagination. It is not real. “Here she comes,” His Lordship whimpers. “For God's sake, man, she's on the steps now. Can't you see her?” I hesitate for a moment

You telling me you’ve dated a Black guy before?” Surprise colors the look he gives me. Surprise and something else. Something warmer. I wish I could surprise him, but I can’t. “No, I’ve never dated a Black guy.” An imp prompts my next comment. “What am I missing?” The warmth overtakes the surprise in his eyes, spiking to a simmer that heats the gold in his brown eyes molten. “Oh, you don’t want to know.” Grip’s voice goes a shade darker. “It might spoil you for all the others.” “You think so?” A sensual tension sifts into the air between us. “They say once you go Black.” He stretches out his smile. “You won’t go back.” A laugh pops out of my mouth before I can check it. “And that’s your experience? Have you been disappointed by the rest of the female rainbow?” My pulse slows while I wait for him to respond, like if my heart hammers I might miss an inflection in his voice. He puts me on high alert. “Oh, no. By no means.” Grip leans back, considering me from under heavy eyelids. “I don’t care what color a girl is. I like the color of smart, the shade of funny, and sexy is my favorite hue.