The woman from Wildlife Services wasn’t kidding about the dogs. When I drove to Ocean General, I saw them everywhere, sometimes wandering alone, sometimes in packs that galloped along the side of the road, lean muscles working in the sun. They tumbled and jawed, black and white and freckled brown.

I wondered if the dogs were why I saw so few people on the streets. But then I got through downtown and emerged into west-side Retreat. With its sparkling view of the Gulf, the west side was stately, pristine. All the dogs were leashed. Tropical deco architecture, everything hot pink and lime green, and newer buildings of blinding white, like salt, lined the boulevards, along which the elderly moved so slowly they seemed as still as bronzes, and the palm fronds shimmered and swayed.

At Ocean General Hospital, I found Dr. Kriss in a state of excitement. She wanted to show me a new subject. He’d been brought in late last night with ballistic trauma to the abdomen, a gunshot wound. Like the Tomahawk in Arcade, south-side Retreat was plagued by violence of the sort that made it ideal grounds for the trial.

The subject’s name was Quinn. He was about twenty years old and his chest, sparsely sprouting blond hair, was exposed, a damp bandage on the entrance wound.

I introduced myself as a writer from the Bystander.

“I’m not saying anything,” he muttered.

“He’s like this now,” Dr. Kriss told me, “but you should’ve seen him when he first came to—he was like a kitten.”

“It’s true.”

I turned to see that another doctor had arrived.

“This is Dr. Behniwal,” said Dr. Kriss. “He supervises the trial here at Ocean General.”

I mentioned meeting Dr. Massengale in Arcade.

“Who?” he said.

“Your colleague, Dr. Massengale. He runs the trial in Colorado.”

“I don’t know him,” said Behniwal, taking up the patient’s chart. “You’re a lucky guy, Quinn. You would’ve bled to death.”

“Better than you put that shit in me.”

I asked Quinn how he was feeling, but he turned away from us, staring at the curtains across the room. They were drawn and full of light.

—

Dr. Kriss led me to her cramped, windowless office. It was messy, unadorned, no diplomas, no photos, the fluorescent light loud on the walls. She lifted a stack of files off the chair for me and sat behind the desk. I pulled out the recorder.

“I was sorry you missed the action last night,” she said. “Quinn’s an ideal subject. It could be a while before we have another like him.”

“It sounds like he’s hostile to your project.”

“That’s pretty common.”

“It must be hard to get consent for something like this.”

Dr. Kriss paused a moment, then met my eyes and said, “I should get this out of the way.”

“Alright.”