There’s a closet-sized washroom off the main lab, nothing more than a five-by-five square of tile with a toilet, a sink, and one of those hand dryers that roar like twin jet engines and make the skin on your hands stretch into a taut, science-fictiony special effect. I lean over the fridge, pluck one of the vials from its tray, and wedge it into the front of my bra, then take a single surgical glove—the kind with no powder—from the dispenser on the counter.

“Be right back,” I say, blowing air into the glove. After considering what I’m about to do, I take two more and head in the direction of the washroom.

Lorenzo raises an eyebrow.

“Six vials, right?” I say, and hear a cabinet opening behind me, followed by the running of water from the lab sink’s tap.

The soldiers never check us over thoroughly when we enter the building in the morning or when we leave it at night. They’re men, after all. Perhaps, after a year of not having to worry about mouthy women and girl power and female wiles, perhaps after so long in their men’s world, they’ve forgotten our secrets, our ways of hiding small cylindrical objects. Perhaps, after all this time of our silence, even their suspicions have lapsed into nothing.

I check the vial’s stopper five times before I’m satisfied it’s secure, then fit the tube inside the latex finger of one glove, tie a knot before trimming the excess bulk, and repeat the process with the next two gloves. The end result is a wad of blue latex, not exactly cylindrical anymore, and not small, but likely leakproof. What the hell, I think. I’ve had four baby heads the size of Nerf balls pass through me. I can stand some minor discomfort for the next hour.

Once I’ve straightened myself out and blown my hands dry, I rejoin Lorenzo in the lab. He gives me a single warning look, and Poe steps toward me. For some reason, he seems even larger when I’m standing up.

“Problem, Dr. McClellan?” Poe says.

“Only if you lower my daily quota on bathroom visits.”

Poe has no response to this, but after checking each room in the lab and stopping to regard Thumper in his plexiglass cage, he turns to us. “Follow me.”

“We’re not done here,” I say. “Are we, Enzo?” The look I give him is hard and unmistakably a different question.

“We’re done,” he says.

Poe snoops around for another five minutes, and I hold my breath as he opens the storage refrigerator and spends more time than I think is necessary counting the vials. Then he leads us through the lab doors and down the corridor and presses the up button on the elevator. “Key cards, please.” He holds out one meaty hand.