“New security procedures,” the soldier says, watching me. This time, there’s no smile, no cheery Have a nice day!, only a pair of eyes, narrowed into slits, watching me from under the brim of his cap as I collect my bag and walk toward the bank of elevators where Morgan is waiting with crossed arms.

“You’re late,” he says.

“I was working through the night,” I lie, and step into the open elevator.

Morgan follows. “You’re not supposed to take work home, Jean. Or did you forget that one simple rule?”

I spin toward him, wishing I’d worn more than a pair of sandals so I could look down at the bastard. Still, our eyes are even. “No, I didn’t forget, Morgan. I don’t forget things. But I’ve got a working brain, so unless you want me to leave that locked up in your fucking lab, get off my back and let me do what I need to do, you little prick.”

“I won’t stand for that kind of talk,” he says.

“Then sit. Or lie down. Or crawl in a hole. I don’t care. I’m busy.”

“I’m writing this up. I’m sending a report to—”

“To who? To the president? Fine. Tell him I’m taking the rest of the month off for bad behavior.” I punch the Close Doors button on the elevator before slipping out, leaving Morgan to fester.

“What the hell was that all about?” Lorenzo says. He’s in the corridor between the elevator and the lab, dressed casually but smartly in a polo and khakis under his white coat.

“I hate that piece of shit,” I say. “Where’s Lin?”

“Hasn’t come in yet. Guess we have the lab all to ourselves.” Mischief lights up his eyes as he closes the gap between us.

A quickie on one of the epoxy resin counters isn’t part of my schedule today, but we do need to talk. “Show me what you’ve been working on,” I say, inserting my key card into the main door of the laboratory. Mice and rabbits greet us with a cacophony of squeaks and chatter. I wish Lin were here, not only because I don’t want to inject the animals myself.

What I know needs to be shared.

Lorenzo turns on the tap in the biochem lab and starts washing his hands, rubbing soap in between each finger, scrubbing his nails one at a time, inspecting each digit. “Well?”

“The three teams. They’re sort of the same, but different.” I think back to the goals statements, to the way two of the teams seemed identical in one way, and two others in another. All because of one little word: “anti.” At the time, sitting cross-legged on the cool of the bathroom floor, I thought it was a typo.