“Go back to your mother,” she said, “and start praying, because the next few hours are going to be harder than you can imagine.”

12

By the time Patrick arrived home, the apartment was crowded with a priest, a pair of nuns, and the O’Shea family waiting in the front room.

“Any change?” he asked Mrs. O’Shea.

“She’s asleep,” the older woman said. “Have you got the medicine?”

He shook his head. “The doctor and his assistants are on their way, but the serum is in Queens. I was told if we can get it to her before sunrise, she’ll have a fighting chance.”

But no guarantee. He slumped on the couch and listened to the O’Sheas gab with the priest, but he couldn’t join in. It was hard not to watch the clock, but every few minutes his eyes strayed over to it. Ten o’clock. Then eleven. Soon it was midnight, and still no sign of Mrs. Kellerman and her serum. Was it only snake oil? Had he been getting his hopes up over a pipe dream?

A little before one o’clock, the clomping of hooves sounded in the lane below. He stuck his head out the window and spotted a carriage with four horses galloping through the deserted streets towards their building. Mrs. Kellerman sat beside the driver on the front buckboard.

“Up here!” he hollered from the open window, heedless of the late hour. Who cared about sleep when his mother’s life was on the line?

A few minutes later Mrs. Kellerman and a stocky man with a graying mustache and a bald pate came bustling into the apartment. Two younger men edged inside as well.

“I am Dr. Haas,” the old man said in a thick German accent. “I’ve brought a pair of research students who are helping me with the study. This is Hiram Schuller from Brooklyn and Jake Gold from Oklahoma.”

Patrick nodded to the men. “Good. My mother is in the back room.”

“Not so fast,” Dr. Haas said. “I need you to understand that this serum is experimental. It may help your mother, but it is just as likely to cause her symptoms to worsen. We must monitor the entire process.”

“I understand,” he said, gesturing toward the bedroom, but Mrs. Kellerman laid a hand on his arm.

“What Dr. Haas is saying is that your mother will become a test subject. He will measure and document her symptoms. He will need to take photographs too. I know it seems like a terrible invasion of her privacy, but it’s necessary to help us develop the serum.”

One of the young men held a bulky camera, and Patrick cringed at the idea of photographs. Birdie wouldn’t like being seen by strangers the way she looked. The muscles in her face had seized to draw her mouth into a grotesque smile she couldn’t move.

“I’ll be sure she understands,” Patrick said.