It wasn’t suspicion so much as it was amazement that he had been selected at all. He still had no idea why they’d chosen him for this role. There must have been better candidates than him. Someone younger, stronger, better connected. Scott’s only explanation was that he’d been “vetted” by those involved and had proven he could be trusted and was loyal to ViMed interests.

“We tested you repeatedly to see how you’d react,” he’d said, “and every single time you protected the company. Even when people started dying. You toed the line, Mr. Adams. You soldiered on.”

The explanation, like much of what Scott had to say, had sounded to Jeremiah like a veiled threat. And it didn’t answer his questions. Of course he’d protected the company. That was his job. That’s why ViMed paid him. From the very beginning, he’d had the feeling that all of this had been decided without him, a long time ago. But he was content with the fact that they’d selected him, no matter their reasons. It was an opportunity beyond anything he’d ever expected.

He walked farther into the room and took a closer look. The decor leaned toward the masculine, with bronze and glass accent pieces dotting the shelves and walls the color of sand. On the side wall, closest to the kitchen, there hung an oversize framed painting—an abstract array of varied circles done in grays and blues. The effect was dizzying and, silently, Jeremiah decided he didn’t like it. He was startled to see, on one of the coffee tables, the exact book he’d been straining to finish for the past two months at home. He picked it up and thumbed through it, relieved to find no page corner had been turned back exactly where he’d left off.

“We’ve supplied you with a range of reading materials,” Scott said. “You’ll have a lot of free time on your hands, I’m afraid. Any specific requests can be handled, of course. Our sources suggested you prefer the physical books over the reader tablet, but we could get that, too, if you like.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jeremiah said, wondering who these “sources” were and how they knew anything at all about his reading habits. He let it go for the moment and walked into the kitchen. Scott followed. The room was a small but opulent galley, gleaming with glossy appliances and stainless-steel countertops.

“Now this,” Scott said, encompassing the room with outstretched arms, “is very impressive. The latest smart home tech—much of it generated specifically for the project. There isn’t a kitchen like it anywhere in the world. You’ll barely need to lift a finger.”

Scott described appliances that were smarter than the average teenager. A refrigerator that would keep track of—and actually place orders for—groceries, and an oven that could set precise temperature and cooking time based solely on the weight and type of food you put into it. Someone must have known, he thought, that he wasn’t much of a chef.