And he’s presently holding it to Lorenzo’s neck, in that soft spot an inch behind the ear.

“Get out,” someone says. I can’t tell whether this is Lorenzo or Morgan yelling in the bright white room with one gurney and a table on wheels. It’s only a voice. Only two words that have no other purpose than to terrify me.

“Morgan—,” I start.

He doesn’t allow me to finish.

“You fucking bitch. Fucking cunt.”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightens, but the words don’t bother me. The syringe, yes, but everything else Morgan has to push is nothing more than jumbled fricatives and velars. I can divorce myself from those.

But that goddamned syringe. That’s real.

I take a step forward, very slowly, a sort of time-warp step from an old sci-fi movie.

“Gianna. No.” Lorenzo sounds as rock steady as his body looks.

“Gianna? Who the fuck is Gianna?” And as he says my name—my other name—Morgan’s eyes flicker. “Oh. I get it. You two have a little something going on. Man, talk about two birds with one stone.” He’s bordering on giddy now. “Oh man, this is too sweet. The poor, star-crossed, moon-eyed lovers. Tell me, Lorenzo, is she good? Looks kind of old from where I stand. But maybe you like your bitches run hard and put away wet.”

The muscles in Lorenzo’s left arm tense, and his hand curls into a fist.

“Ah, ah, ah, Dr. Rossi.” Morgan pushes the needle’s point harder against flesh.

A pinprick of a red spot appears at the contact point, and a single drop of clear fluid rolls down the side of Lorenzo’s neck. It’s impossible to tell whether it’s sweat or serum.

“You know,” Morgan says, his voice syrup sweet but still menacing, “I’m not much of a scientist. All that poring over data and running the same fucking experiments over and over again. I hate that shit. But I’m a good reader. A good people reader. And I can read other things. Like that little bottle over there that says ‘Local injection only.’” He knocks his chin toward the spilled contents of the surgical tray without moving his eyes off me. “I saw that, and I had to ask, why? Why local only? What would happen if I pushed this needle in like so—” The needle buries itself a millimeter or two into Lorenzo’s neck, far too close to the jugular vein. “What would happen if I just started pushing down on the plunger? Any ideas?”

“Go ahead, Morgan,” Lorenzo says. “Gianna, get the hell out of here. There’s a spare key under my car’s fender. Take it and go.”