Vox(31)

He steps in and holds out a manicured hand. “Dr. McClellan, I’m so happy to have you on my team. So happy.”

Of course you are.

And it’s his team. Not the team, not our team.

I take his hand. I’ve always had a firm grip for a woman, and shaking hands with Morgan is a bit like shaking with a newborn kitten. “I’m happy, too,” I say. Pussy.

“So,” he says. “Shall we get to business? I’ve got some paperwork for you to sign, and we’ll need to set up a direct deposit to your husband’s account. Whew. Hot in here.”

“The AC’s on the fritz,” I say. “We can go into the back room. There’s a window unit in there.” No sense in asking why my paychecks will go to Patrick’s account; all my money has been sitting there since last year. Words, passports, money—even criminals get two out of three. At least they used to.

I lead him through the house, stopping at the kitchen to refill Patrick’s and my coffee and pour Morgan one of his own. He takes it with three spoons of sugar and a fat inch of milk, which I remembered to run out for last night after the disaster of a dinner with Steven and Sonia’s meltdown. She seemed to brighten a little when Olivia King came to pick her up, possibly because I told her Mrs. King had a cartoon cable channel and would bake some cookies today. Possibly, the smile on my daughter’s face had to do with the lavender counter on our neighbor’s wrist. Something normal.

The first set of papers Morgan takes out of his briefcase is a contract, a noncompete agreement (as if I had any other job prospects), a nondisclosure agreement, and a work-for-hire acknowledgment. This last is a five-page-long reminder in legalese that all of the work I create belongs not to me but to the government. I take the pen Morgan offers and sign everything without reading, wondering why they even need a signature, since they’ll do what they want in any case. Patrick signs the direct deposit forms and hands them over.

I do, however, note the compensation terms: five thousand dollars a week and a bonus of one hundred thousand if I complete the cure by August 31. The bonus is reduced by ten percent for every month after this date. So there’s incentive to work fast, in a way, but the sooner I’m done, the sooner the metal counters go back on Sonia’s and my wrists. I know they will eventually; it’s only a matter of time.

“Perfect,” Morgan says, removing a machine from his briefcase. The slim black object is like an iPhone, only larger. He sets it on the coffee table between us. “Security check.” He presses a button, swipes, and enters my name. “Thumb is one, index finger two, and so on. Just follow the instructions and hold your finger to the screen until you hear a beep.”

Naturally, they’d want a fingerprint check. I do as I’m told, and after the machine scans my left pinkie, Morgan picks it back up and waits. “This will only take a few seconds. If you’re cleared, we can unlock your files and head over to my lab.”

Again with the “my.” I wonder how much of my work—my and Lin’s work, that is—will wind up with Morgan’s signature on it.

“Okeydokey,” Morgan says when the machine pings. “You’re clear.” He turns to Patrick, who has been holding a set of keys in his hand throughout the signing-and-fingerprinting party. “Sir?”

Patrick leaves, and doors start to open. First his study. Then the metal file cabinet next to the window. Then the closet where I suppose my laptop and files have been living for the past year. While he’s gone, Morgan shuffles through another set of papers. “Here’s the team,” he says, handing me a copy. At least he hasn’t said “my” again. If he did, I might have to slap him.

The team leader, of course, is Morgan LeBron himself. There’s a short bio after his name, including a reference to his latest position: Chair, Department of Linguistics, Georgetown University. Underneath, the rest of us are in alphabetical order: first Lin Kwan, and her credentials, which include the word “former”; then me, also “former.” Each instance of that word is a poke in the eye.

But I’m not ready for the gut punch that follows.

The third surname on the list is Rossi. First name, Lorenzo.





TWENTY-FOUR




It’s been so long since I’ve used my laptop, I’m worried it might not power up, that a year of nonuse will have sent it into the same dormant silence I fell into. But it’s obedient, like an old friend waiting for a phone call, or a pet sitting patiently at the door until its owner comes home. I trace a finger over its smooth keys, wipe a smudge from the screen, and collect myself.

A year is a long time. Hell, when the FIOS in our house went down for two hours, it seemed like the end of the world.

Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours is a lifetime longer than two, which is why I need a moment before I walk out of this house, start the Honda, and follow Morgan to the lab where I’ll be spending three days a week from now until I finish fixing the president’s brother.

Also, I need a moment to sift through my files, the ones I copied and kept at home so I didn’t have to lug the same shit back and forth to my campus office. There are reports I don’t want Morgan to see, not until I can speak to Lin.

The bottom folder is the one I want, the folder with the red X on its front flap. Patrick has already gone to work, and Morgan is out in his Mercedes making phone calls, likely gloating to Reverend Carl about what a fantastic team he’s put together, which leaves me here in the paneled room with its humming window air-conditioning unit and—I don’t know—about five million pounds of books. They don’t weigh that much, but the teetering piles of texts and journals are like academic mesas littering the rec room.