“Yes, Dr. Cornelia has been associated with Cornell and he is on staff at Metropolitan Hospital in New York,” my dad says. “But, to be clear, his entire premise is suspect. It was by no means all of the Outliers in my exploratory study who exhibited behavioral or psychological difficulties. Not to mention that the other two original Outliers had no such issues whatsoever. So there may be some relationship between mood disorders such as anxiety and being an Outlier, but that relationship is certainly not straightforward cause and effect.”

I think this is supposed to make me feel better. It does not.

“Dr. Cornelia from Cornell?” is all I can think to say.

“Yes, it is a bit ridiculous. Dr. Cornelia from Cornell also has a very controversial book out about bioterrorism that he is actively trying to promote as well as a career in dire need of a restart.”

“Bioterrorism?” I ask, but Gideon and my dad are fixated on each other now.

“Still, it’s not like Dr. Cornelia is some random guy.” Gideon turns and looks at me. “And unlikely isn’t the same thing as impossible. Right, Dad? She could still just be sick, right?”

Gideon is trying to hurt me. The stupid part is how much it is working.

“No, not right. Dr. Cornelia’s theory does not adequately explain the HEP.” My dad slides the last pancakes off the griddle and onto a spare plate. Then he holds his spatula upright against the counter like some kind of staff. “Would you rather I lie and pretend that you are an Outlier, Gideon? Or that you could be? Because that seems insulting to your intelligence.” My dad exhales, hard. “Wylie is an Outlier, and you are not. Period. This does not mean that I love you any less. Or that you are any less special. You are simply special in a different way than Wylie is. That’s the truth, Gideon. What else do you want?”

“I want you to admit that she’s the only thing that matters to you now.” Gideon’s pointing at me. But at least he’s not looking at me, so I don’t have to feel the full force of his hatred. “Your kid and your research all in one place. What do you even need me for anymore?”

My dad winces. “Gideon, you know that’s not the way I feel.”

“No, Dad, I don’t know anything about the way you feel.” Gideon’s voice is quiet now, devastated. “That’s Wylie’s specialty, remember?”

My dad closes his eyes and lowers his head. As he passes out of the room, Gideon knocks hard into my shoulder, almost shoving me off the chair. I push myself back up as he storms to the foyer. My dad and I both flinch as the front door slams shut behind him.

4