The Thought Readers (Mind Dimensions #1)(15)

Eugene’s face tightens at my platitude. “If you’re a Pusher and she catches you here, you’ll be sorry.”

“Right, okay.” I get that point now. “Let’s find out quickly then.”

“Put this on your fingers,” Eugene says, and grabs another cable from the shelf.

I put the device on. It reminds me of a heart-rate monitor, the kind a nurse would use on you at a hospital.

Eugene starts something on his laptop and turns the computer toward me.

There’s a program on the screen that seems to be tracking my heart rate, so my theory was probably right.

“That’s a photoplethysmograph,” he says. When he sees my blank stare, he adds, “How much do you know about biofeedback?”

“Not much,” I admit. “But I do know it’s when scientists use electrodes, similar to the ones you used on me before, to measure your brain patterns.” I recall reading about it in the context of a new way to control video games in the future, with your mind—as nature clearly intended. Also to beat lie detectors, but that’s a long story.

“Good. That’s neurofeedback, which is a type of biofeedback,” he explains. His voice takes on a professorial quality as he speaks. I can easily picture him teaching at some community college. Glasses, white coat, and all. “This is a simpler feedback.” He points at my fingers. “It measures your heart-rate variability.”

Another blank stare from me prompts him to explain further.

“Your heart rate can be a window into your internal emotional state. There is a specific state I need you to master. This device should expedite the training.” He looks uncertain when he says ‘should’—I’m guessing he hasn’t done much of this expedited training before.

I don’t care, though. From what I know of biofeedback, it’s harmless. If it keeps Mira from shooting me, sign me up.

“Anyway, you can read up on the details later. For now, I need you to learn to keep this program in the green.” He points to a part of the screen.

It’s like a game, then. There’s a big red-alert-looking button activated in the right-hand lower corner of the screen. Next to it are blue and green buttons.

“Sync your breath to this,” he says, pointing at a little bar that goes up and down. “This is five-in and five-out breathing.”

I breathe in sync to the bar for a few minutes. Whatever leftover fear I had evaporates; the technique is rather soothing.

“That’s good,” he says, pointing at the important lower corner. The red button is gone, and I’m now in the blue. I keep breathing. The green light eludes me.

I see the graph the software keeps of my heart-rate variability. It begins to look more and more even, almost like sine curves. I find it cool—even if I have no idea what that change means in terms of being able to Read.

The feeling this experience evokes is familiar, mainly because of the synchronous breathing. Lucy, my mom, taught me to do this as a meditation technique when I was a kid. She said it would help me focus. I think she secretly hoped it would reduce my hyperactivity. I loved the technique and still do it from time to time. It’s something she told me she learned from one of her old friends on the force—a friend who passed away. You’re supposed to think happy thoughts while doing the breathing, according to her teachings. Since I’m thinking of Lucy already, I remember fondly how she told me that she didn’t know how to meditate just because she was Asian, which was what I used to think. It was the first lecture I received on cultural stereotypes, but definitely not the last. It’s a pet peeve of both of my moms. They have a lot of pet peeves like that, actually.

Thus thinking happy thoughts, I try to ignore the bar, closing my eyes to do the meditation Lucy taught me. Every few seconds, I peek at the screen to see how I’m doing.

“That’s it,” Eugene says suddenly, startling me. When I open my eyes this time, I see the curves are even straighter, and the button is green.

“You did that much too easily,” he says, giving me a suspicious look. “But no matter. Do it again, without looking at the screen at all.”

He takes the laptop away, and I do my ‘Lucy meditation.’ In less than a minute, he looks at me with a more awed expression.

“That is amazing. I haven’t heard of anyone reaching Coherence so quickly before on the first try,” he says. “You’re ready for the real test.”

He gets up, gets the gun, and puts it in his lab coat pocket. Then, much to my surprise, he leads me out of the apartment.

I’m especially puzzled when he walks across the hall and rings the doorbell of the neighboring apartment.

The door opens, and a greasy-haired, redheaded young guy looks us over. His eyes are bloodshot and glassy.

Without warning, everything silences.

Eugene is pulling his hand away from my frozen self. He must’ve done that trick his sister pulled on me at the casino. He must’ve phased in and touched me, bringing me into the Quiet. It’s creepy to think about—someone touching my frozen self the way I’ve touched so many others—but I guess I need to get used to the idea, since I’m no longer the only one who can do this.

Eugene approaches the guy and touches him on the forehead. I half-expect the guy to appear in the Quiet, too.

But no. There are only five of us: a frozen Eugene and me, the moving versions of us, and this guy, who’s still a motionless statue.