I lead him through the house, stopping at the kitchen to refill Patrick’s and my coffee and pour Morgan one of his own. He takes it with three spoons of sugar and a fat inch of milk, which I remembered to run out for last night after the disaster of a dinner with Steven and Sonia’s meltdown. She seemed to brighten a little when Olivia King came to pick her up, possibly because I told her Mrs. King had a cartoon cable channel and would bake some cookies today. Possibly, the smile on my daughter’s face had to do with the lavender counter on our neighbor’s wrist. Something normal.

The first set of papers Morgan takes out of his briefcase is a contract, a noncompete agreement (as if I had any other job prospects), a nondisclosure agreement, and a work-for-hire acknowledgment. This last is a five-page-long reminder in legalese that all of the work I create belongs not to me but to the government. I take the pen Morgan offers and sign everything without reading, wondering why they even need a signature, since they’ll do what they want in any case. Patrick signs the direct deposit forms and hands them over.

I do, however, note the compensation terms: five thousand dollars a week and a bonus of one hundred thousand if I complete the cure by August 31. The bonus is reduced by ten percent for every month after this date. So there’s incentive to work fast, in a way, but the sooner I’m done, the sooner the metal counters go back on Sonia’s and my wrists. I know they will eventually; it’s only a matter of time.

“Perfect,” Morgan says, removing a machine from his briefcase. The slim black object is like an iPhone, only larger. He sets it on the coffee table between us. “Security check.” He presses a button, swipes, and enters my name. “Thumb is one, index finger two, and so on. Just follow the instructions and hold your finger to the screen until you hear a beep.”

Naturally, they’d want a fingerprint check. I do as I’m told, and after the machine scans my left pinkie, Morgan picks it back up and waits. “This will only take a few seconds. If you’re cleared, we can unlock your files and head over to my lab.”

Again with the “my.” I wonder how much of my work—my and Lin’s work, that is—will wind up with Morgan’s signature on it.

“Okeydokey,” Morgan says when the machine pings. “You’re clear.” He turns to Patrick, who has been holding a set of keys in his hand throughout the signing-and-fingerprinting party. “Sir?”