took a deep breath, Dr. Patel’s cold stethoscope feeling like it was burning a hole through my skin.

“Sorry,” he said, realizing too late and rubbing the metal against his coat. He tried again, writing down his findings.

“How are you feeling?”

“Weak.”

He nodded. “That’s normal. We could lower the intensity of the treatments; however, it could double the time.”

“No.”

He nodded. “How’s the pain?”

“A five most of the time. Sometimes a six.”

He nodded again, writing down my answers. “Any relief?”

“No.”

“Are you taking the medication?”

“Everything but the pain pills.”

He wrote more, then signed his name. “Chest X-Ray in two hours. You’ve got training before then?”

I nodded. “That’s all you’ll let me do. I need to start as soon as I can, so my contract can begin.”

“I understand.” He put his stethoscope away. “We’ll get you there.”

“When?” I asked.

“Can’t be certain, but you’re progressing along nicely. Better than previous patients. On average their treatments took nine weeks. At this rate, you’ll be shaving at least two weeks off of that. Maybe more. Your last treatment could be the next one.”

I nodded. “Good.”

Dr. Patel stood, shook my hand, and let the door shut behind him. It was the first time I’d seen a doctor who did house calls, or, in my case, cell calls. My room wasn’t awful. It was twice as big as my hotel room, and I was next door to Dean, the former security head. He’d been given a job deeper in the facility, and although he wasn’t allowed to speak about it, he was happy to talk about anything else.

After a short knock the door opened, and Dean walked in wearing a gray T-shirt and flannel pajama pants. “Damn. That one took it out of you, huh?”

“Try getting shunts and shit fed through all your veins and valves and electrodes shocking the shit out of you, making you feel like you’re having a heart attack every day? Yeah, it tends to leave me feeling a little off. And that’s not including the blood work, the biopsies, the—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. You’re going to make me throw up.” He sighed, sitting in corner chair. “I’m so sorry, Zeke. I know it’s tough. You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” I said, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “It’s going to be a long three years.”

Dean got quiet.

I turned to face him. “What?”

“Is that what they told you? Three years?”

“Yeah, why?”

“It’s just that … most people down here don’t leave, not without an outside mission or task anyway. The security team turns over, but we’re moved to other areas unless they think they can’t trust you.”

“Where do those people go?”

Dean shrugged. “Nowhere good.”