“What the hell did you do that for?” he says.

I open my eyes and see the soldier, gun hand still trembling after what might have been his first kill, looking from me to Lorenzo to Morgan to the dead Number 412 in the cage above me. Before he can answer, Morgan opens his mouth again.

“That’s just terrific. Just great. You idiot. I should put you in one of these cages, except you don’t have enough of a brain for me to work with. Do you know how much these animals cost?”

“Apparently more than I do, Morgan,” I say.

“Christ.” He turns to Lorenzo. “What’s the damage?”

Lorenzo has unworked the chimp’s fingers from my hair and lays me on the tiled floor as he inspects the gash on my face. A trickle of hot blood runs into my mouth. “Does that hurt?” he says, prodding at a spot near my temple.

Hurt? No. It feels like I’ve been dragged across coarse sandpaper. It burns. “Yeah,” I say, moving my hand up to the injury.

“No, you don’t. I need to clean this. Morgan, get me a first aid kit.”

“How am I supposed to know where they keep the first aid crap? I’m a project manager.”

“You’re a shit project manager, Morgan,” Lorenzo says. “You’re a lousy scientist and a poor researcher and if I ever get you alone, I’m going to tear you apart one bone at a time. For now, start looking. Try the cabinet in the corner marked with a red cross.” Under his breath, he says, “Asshole.”

“Am I okay?” I say, wanting to touch my face, make sure everything is still where it’s supposed to be.

“Better than okay,” Lorenzo says. “And, Morgan, when you find that kit, call a doctor.”

Morgan’s shoes cross back until they’re so close I can almost see my reflection in them. “No can do. This is a secure facility, in case you missed that.”

Lorenzo ignores him as he bathes the right side of my face with peroxide and fixes a clean bandage over the wound that runs from my hairline to the corner of my mouth. “Surface scratches, mostly. Can you stand?”

“I think so.” The lab, with its remaining chimps, comes into focus. “What’s going on, Morgan?” I say.

He’s all business now, my near brush as the victim of a rogue primate forgotten. “We need you back to work.”

“Doing what? You said we were done. That hired thug called Poe said we were done. You scrubbed our files.”

I wait while Morgan studies his shoelaces.

“Follow me,” he says.

We leave the animal containment room and go through another set of doors. Inside, a replica of the basement lab hums with activity. No one, apparently, heard my screams. Or the shot.

Or maybe they did, and don’t care.