He doesn’t need to say anything. The cage labeled ONE is a circus of frisky rodents, chattering and squeaking, milling about their little mouse community as if they’re at a church social. The second cage holds a dozen lifeless creatures, their furry bodies already stiffening with rigor.

I hate myself for giving them names.

Mice don’t have the capacity for language, but we didn’t need them to, not for this final test. Because of Lin’s previous work—thankfully—I didn’t have to take part in the ape experiments of two years ago; we already isolated the neurolinguistic components of our serum. The mice today serve a single purpose: to test the two neuroproteins Lorenzo developed. None of us wants to inject a human subject with a toxin.

But, of course, this is exactly what will happen.

I sit next to Lorenzo and slide one of the blank lab reports from his pile toward me. In small letters, I write one word in the top corner of the sheet, covering it over with my other hand:

Bioweapon.

As soon as he’s read it, I crumple the page and take it through the internal door to the biochem lab. Lorenzo follows, and together we watch the paper turn yellow, then black, as it disintegrates in the blue flame of a Bunsen burner.

“You’re sure?” he says, twisting the sink tap open and staring at the ashes.

“No, but it makes sense.” I tell him about my conversation with Morgan upstairs. “Think about it, Enzo. Project Anti-Wernicke, Project Wernicke, and Project Water Solubility. Injections take time—rounding people up, training the medical techs. That would give them a chance to escape. Spike a city’s water supply, though, and you might as well drop a neutron bomb.” I snap my fingers. “Bang. But without the sound.”

“That’s insane,” Lorenzo says.

“So is Reverend Carl. And by the way,” I say, wiping down the epoxy resin counter, getting rid of all traces of burned paper before we call Morgan downstairs, “our fearless leader wants the trials scheduled for tomorrow.”

“They’re moving fast.”

“Yes. They are.”

I let Lorenzo call Morgan on the intercom so I don’t have to talk to the son of a bitch any more than absolutely necessary. Meanwhile, I prep vials of the first neuroprotein serum and fill out the day’s report. The mice—the dead ones—I lock inside a freezer so Lin can work her postmortem magic on them when she gets here.

If Lin ever gets here.

“She didn’t say anything to you yesterday, did she?” I ask when Lorenzo is off the intercom.

He shakes his head. “Only that she was going to meet a friend for dinner.”

“Which friend?”

“You remember Isabel?”

“How could I forget?” I say.