Grey stepped back into the elevator with Davis. From around his neck Davis took a long, silver key and placed it in a slot beside the button for L4.

“Have fun down there,” Davis said.

“I just clean,” Grey said nervously.

Davis frowned and shook his head. “I don’t want to know anything about it.”

In the locker room on L4, Grey switched out his jumpsuit for scrubs. Two other men were there, sweeps like him, one named Jude and one named Ignacio. On the wall, a large whiteboard listed the duties of each worker for the shift. They dressed together without speaking and exited the room.

Grey had drawn the lucky straw: all he had to do was mop the halls and empty the trash, then babysit Zero for the rest of the shift, to see if he ate anything. From the storage closet he fetched his mop and supplies and got to work; by midnight he was done. Then he went to the door at the end of the first corridor, ran his card through the scanner, and stepped inside.

The room, about twenty feet square, was empty. On the left side, a two-stage air lock led into the containment chamber. Going through took at least ten minutes, more on the return trip, when you had to shower. To the right of the air lock was the control panel. It was all a bunch of lights and buttons and switches, most of which Grey didn’t understand and wasn’t supposed to touch. Above it was a wall of reinforced glass, dark, which looked out on the chamber.

Grey took a seat at the panel and examined the infrared. Zero was kind of huddled in the corner, away from the gates, which had been left open when the last shift had brought in the rabbits. The galvanized cart was still there, sitting in the middle of the room, with its ten open cages. Three of the rabbits were still inside. Grey looked around the room. The others were all scattered about, untouched.

At a little after one A.M. the door to the corridor opened, and one of the techs stepped in, a large Hispanic man named Pujol. He nodded at Grey and looked at the monitor.

“Still not eating?”

“Uh-uh.”

Pujol made a mark on the screen of his handheld. He had one of those complexions that made it look as if he hadn’t shaved even when he had.

“I was wondering something,” Grey said. “How come they don’t eat the tenth one?”

Pujol shrugged. “How should I know? Maybe they’re just saving it for later.”

“I had a dog who did that,” Grey volunteered.

Pujol made more marks on his handheld. “Yeah, well.” He lifted one broad shoulder in a shrug; the information meant nothing to him. “Call the lab if he decides to eat.”