“Nothing like that, Dr. McClellan. The first feature is a courtesy tracker.”

“A what?”

“We like to think of it as a gentle nudge, nothing more. Just keep things clean, and everything will function normally. No four-letter words, no blasphemy. If you slip up, that’s okay, but your quota reduces by ten for each infraction. You’ll get used to it.”

I feel like Cartman in that South Park movie, the one where he gets a chip implanted in his head that shocks him every time he says “fuck,” which, because it’s South Park, is effectively all the time.

“The second requires a bit more action on your part.” He taps the red button at the side of the band. “Once a day, at a time of your choosing, you will press this button and speak into the bracelet. There’s a microphone here.” He points to the other side, opposite the red button. “We’re hoping this practice will help get people—”

“Women,” I interrupt.

“Yes. Women. We’re hoping it will help put you in the mood, understand the fundamentals.”

“How?”

From his breast pocket he removes a folded sheet of paper and smooths it out. It’s a typed list. “You’ll read this, once a day, into the microphone. Press the red button twice before you start, and twice when you’ve finished. It won’t count against your quota.”

“What won’t count?” My mouth has gone dry. I take another swallow of coffee, now cold.

He hands me the sheet. “Why don’t you read it now while I train the device to your voice? We’ll kill two birds with one stone that way.”

The first words I read are in bold blue type at the top of the page:

I BELIEVE that man was created in the image and glory of God, and that woman is the glory of the man, for man was not made of woman, but woman was made from man.

“I can’t read this,” I say.

Reverend Carl checks his watch. “Dr. McClellan, I have a meeting downtown in an hour. If we can’t finish this, I’ll have to call someone who can.”

I’m picturing Thomas of the dark suit and dark complexion and even darker eyes, the one who took my counter off yesterday morning. The man I saw once before, a year ago, when men first came for us.

On the day I announced our team’s progress to a packed seminar room, two dozen uniformed men, their left arms banded with the presidential seal, midnight black weapons in their right hands, pushed through the crowd. My projector dimmed in the time it took me to catch a breath. Behind me, only ghosts of my formulas remained on the white scrim.

It had begun, the terrible, unthinkable thing Patrick had warned me about only days earlier.