Lorenzo continues the charade of washing his hands, turning up the water, leaning in closer to the faucet.

“Our team’s goal is development of the anti-Wernicke serum,” I say. “At first, I thought the Gold team’s goal was identical, but then it hit me—there’s nothing top secret about what we’re doing here, I mean what you and Lin and I are working on.”

“You don’t advertise classified shit to a press conference,” Lorenzo says, agreeing.

“Right. So the Gold team’s packet left out one word.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Anti,” I whisper. “That team isn’t developing an anti-Wernicke serum, and the Red team isn’t working on water solubility for an anti-Wernicke serum. The ‘anti’ was missing there, too.”

“Holy shit,” he says, staring at his hands. “You’re sure it wasn’t a typo?”

“No. I’m not sure. I can’t be sure. But it makes sense. It’s the only thing that explains why the materials are classified, and why Morgan has a single binder labeled ‘Project Wernicke.’ We’d always called it Anti-Wernicke, or, later, Wernicke-X. Just like you wouldn’t be working on a cancer cure and name your study ‘Project Cancer.’”

“Not unless you were developing cancer in a lab,” he says. “It sounds wrong.”

I tell him about Patrick and Del, the locked mailbox, Poe’s men coming to take Del away this morning. “They know,” I say. “Poe or someone knows there’s an underground operation, and they know they’ve found out what’s really going on.”

For a long time, we look at each other over the running water, careful to keep our heads bent toward the sink. There isn’t anything to say, because we both know our work is being reverse engineered somewhere in this building.

Whether Reverend Carl is behind it, or Morgan or the president or the Pure Movement, doesn’t matter. It could be all of them, all working to create a serum that doesn’t cure aphasia, but causes it.

Chapter Fifty

FIFTY

Lorenzo and I prep two groups of mice for injections. Each set will receive one of the two neuroproteins he’s been formulating, and, with luck, we’ll know which direction we need to take by the end of the day, when half of the mice are dead. As I remove the tiny creatures from their cages and shave a square patch of fur from them, one by one, a single word ping-pongs around my brain.

Why?

The answer comes much too easily, also in the form of a single word: silence.

Lorenzo reaches over and takes the brown mouse from my shaking hands. “I’ll do it,” he says, guiding the clippers along its flank. “There. You put Mickey in the Group One cage. And don’t worry, I’ll take care of the injections.”

“I’m that bad?”