Mango nodded. ‘The more we play around with DNA, the less we seem to know for sure.’

‘So would you risk having gene therapy from an underground lab like this?’ Charlie asked.

Mango liked the thoughtfulness behind this question and paused for a few seconds before answering.

‘The risk of severe complications of a well-understood gene-therapy procedure done with proper safety precautions is less than one per cent. That’s lower than the risk of a life-threatening infection after surgery in a hospital. So if I was like Patient Q and I suffered from depression, hated my body and was crippled by a lack of confidence I’d probably spend my twenty thousand dollars and take the risk.’

‘Not sure I would,’ Charlie said, shuddering. ‘But then I don’t even like going to the dentist.’

‘Getting back to Patient Q, I do every procedure twice and if the two samples match I know that no random errors have crept in during gene editing,’ Mango explained. ‘So my plan is I’ll do Patient Q’s first sample and explain as I go. Then you can take over and do the second sample while I look on.

‘Provided the two samples match, we’ll grab lunch and when we come back I’ll show you how we insert the altered DNA into an E. coli virus, and turn that into a stable solution that will infect the patient with his perma tan and manly physique.’

35 ALL A BIT CRUMMY

The plan had been for Charlie to ride a bus to the transit terminal. Harry would pick her up after his detention and they’d drive to a movie theatre, meet with Matt and Lana, catch an early showing then hang out at Harry’s place until Charlie had to get home for her 6 p.m. curfew. But Ken Kleinberg had to approve any trip Charlie made, and he either didn’t like the idea of her spending the day on the other side of town, or wanted to show who was boss.

Either way, Harry had to go to North Vegas again. He wanted to make the most of the day, so he set a 7 a.m. alarm and sat up in bed doing updates to Vegas Local, then he sorted books for his schoolbag, hoping to get most of his weekend homework done during the detention.

After a shower, Harry dressed in casual clothes, bagging his school uniform because Kirsten would realise he had detention if she saw him wearing it on a Saturday.

Things ran smooth until Kirsten knocked on Harry’s door. He was on the end of his bed, battling a sock that had shrunk in the wash.

‘Are you decent?’

‘Yeah, come on in.’

Kirsten often came knocking to ask what food Harry fancied, or just for a chat. But her face wasn’t friendly as she crashed the door and stormed in.