In the elevator, my reflection stares back at me from three sides. From the front, I don’t look so bad, a little puffy under the eyes, hair misbehaving as usual, face drawn somewhat from my recent diet of coffee and water. The side views show a different me than I’m accustomed to. I remind myself to straighten my shoulders and pick my chin up; there’s no sense in letting Mrs. Ray see me beaten down; she’d only worry. I try sucking in my belly, but it’s no use. The irregular bulge under my blouse reminds me I had to leave the top button of my jeans undone.

Christ, I hope Patrick didn’t notice when he kissed me goodbye this morning.

Inside the lab, I say hello to the remaining rodents and rabbits, ignore the freezer where the dozen dead mice wait to be dissected, and prep one of the side rooms for Mrs. Ray. It’s sparse and sterile, not exactly what I had in mind for her first moments rejoining the land of language, but I can make it better.

I head back into the room of cages and pick a snow-white rabbit from the top row, placing him in a plexiglass cube with airholes high on each side, adding a bed of wood chips, a water tube, and a scattering of food pellets from the storage container. I know they’re alfalfa, but they smell like crap.

“There you go, Thumper,” I tell him. “Got a new friend for you to meet.”

Morgan walks in.

“What’s that, Jean?” he says. “I thought you were finished with the animal tests.”

Again, my brain tells my body to stand up straight. “He’s for Mrs. Ray. I thought she might like to see something besides a white wall.”

He shrugs, as if our first subject is nothing more than another lab animal. Which, I think, she is, in Morgan’s mind.

“You coming down for the trial?” I say, carrying Thumper’s plastic house closer to the room where I’ll inject our first human subject.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

I open the refrigerated cabinet, the one Lorenzo stored the vials of our anti-aphasia serum in. He’s labeled the second group of vials—the ones that killed the mice—with a bright red X and segregated them on a different shelf. Where the six glass tubes should be, there’s only one.

“Did you take these?” I ask Morgan.

“What?” His eyes move up and to the left as he dodges the question.

He turns to leave, and I have an idea.

“Morgan, how plugged-in are you?”

His eyes narrow and his face hardens, suspicious and fearful at the same time.

“Oh,” I say, forcing a girlish smile, “I was just wondering if you’ve ever been inside—you know—the White House.”

Like a game fish after a chum line, he takes the bait I’ve thrown out, and relaxes.