His kitchen was equipped with all manner of knives to choose from. Evidently, he mused, no one had ever considered the possibility that the lab rat might think to arm himself. All he needed was a sure way out of here.

Brent was due for a viewing early that evening. Jeremiah was dreading what they’d have to watch. His heart sank at the thought of seeing Parker’s face, of watching the clone fumble to comfort him. He wasn’t sure he could have done a better job, but he wished more than anything else that he could have the chance to try. Parker certainly knew about his mother’s death by now. The news had been broken to him and the first sting of shock subsided enough for it to feel real to him. Jeremiah imagined he was out of school for a few days while arrangements for the funeral were being made and details were taken care of. His double would be busy with that. He’d have that needed distraction. But Parker would have nothing but long stretches of time to wallow and grapple with the untamed emotions of an adolescent boy. The idea of it broke his heart.

When Brent walked in before 5:00 p.m. he carried two white-handled shopping bags that he placed on the counter in the kitchen.

“Dinner,” he told Jeremiah. “I figured you haven’t been eating. I smuggled in Chinese, and plenty of it. Screw the goddamn diet.”

He emptied one bag of several steaming cartons, which, Jeremiah admitted, smelled good. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. From the other bag, Brent took a good-size bottle of whiskey.

“And dessert,” he said.

“I’ll have dessert first, in that case.”

Brent nodded and got two small glasses from a cupboard, filled them each halfway and handed one to Jeremiah, who downed it and held his glass out for a refill.

They ate in relative silence in the living room, in front of the empty viewing wall. Soon enough it switched on automatically, and Jeremiah saw an image of his own kitchen table where, ironically, his clone and his son were eating directly from white Chinese food cartons. For a while, there was no discussion between them, either.

“When do I go back to school?” Parker asked at last.

The clone looked up from his food in surprise. “The wake is Friday, day after tomorrow,” he said. “And then the funeral is Saturday. Maybe Monday if you want. You can take a few more days, though. I’ve spoken to the school. It won’t be a problem.”

Jeremiah winced. He understood at once his son’s desire to get back to a routine, to trick the mind into thinking everything was normal again. Parker didn’t understand that it wouldn’t work that way. How could he?

“No. I’d rather go back,” Parker told the clone. “And you didn’t need to call the school. I’m not in kindergarten, you know.”

“I thought it might help if you didn’t have to worry about that,” the clone said. “And besides, I didn’t call the school. They called me. Someone there must have heard about the accident. It’s been on the news.”