“Presumably he’d change his tie before he goes on live TV.”

“Exactly. And we’d know which tie to get for you.”

“I suppose,” Jeremiah said. “Fix yourself some breakfast. I’m still nursing my goddamn mouth.”

Brent got eggs from the refrigerator and put bread in the toaster. “Any idea when we can get some bacon around here?”

“I’ve lost six pounds, I’ll have you know. I got the green light to get a few things back on the menu. One of them, at your request, was beer.”

“I don’t want beer for breakfast.”

For several hours, they watched the clone at the ViMed office, and Jeremiah found himself scrutinizing the space more than he did his double, looking for a place to stash a note, if it came down to that. He studied the desk every time the clone was near it, memorizing the exact location of pens and paper, the precise position of the center drawer. If he got the chance to be in that office, to sit at that desk, seconds would count.

As the clone went about his morning, Jeremiah found himself mesmerized by the windows. Even though they only offered a view of a parking lot and the backs of two other buildings in the compound, he fantasized about the chance to stand there for a moment, maybe open it and feel actual fresh air on his face. He entertained the ridiculous notion of jumping out, risking it all and running back home to protect his wife. But it was a twelve-story drop to the pavement. He wouldn’t get very far on two broken legs.

There was more than the usual level of activity in the clone’s office all day. The place was on hyperdrive. The entire communications team worked to put the finishing touches on the Meld publicity stunt. The broadcast was scheduled for 7:00 p.m. and would take place in a ViMed conference room, where news crews had been busy for several hours setting up lighting and equipment. Before and after he took the drug, there was to be a panel discussion with officials from both ViMed and the FDA. Charles Scott, obviously, had been “selected” to represent the company. Jeremiah figured the FDA official would be someone handpicked by Scott.

The whole event was one big sham.

ViMed executives were buzzing about it. Big guns—people Jeremiah wouldn’t have guessed even knew his name—streamed in and out of the department, offering praise and shaking the clone’s hand.

“This is an A-plus idea, Adams,” a portly VP with glasses told him. “If this little demonstration doesn’t convince people that Meld is safe for the public, I don’t know what will.”

Jeremiah couldn’t stand that the clone looked so smug. Idiot, he thought, you won’t even be there.

Three of the major cable networks had agreed to air the demonstration live, and online streaming sites on both sides of the issue were gearing up for record traffic. Jeremiah understood, with some concern, that much of the hype involved the ghoulish possibility of a live broadcast suicide. He had no doubt that there were people absolutely hoping to see someone freak out and knife himself in front of the cameras as soon as the Meld took effect. They’d be disappointed, though. Because Jeremiah was used to the drug. Sorry, he thought, you sickos will have to get your kicks somewhere else.