“Time to dose them,” Glen says. “The high-dose dogs wouldn’t eat yesterday so the capsules had to be forced down their throats.”
We place the capsules in the food and mix it all up. The low-dose and control dogs eat everything. With a bit of coaxing, the mid-dose dogs also manage to get their food and capsules down.
None of the high-dose dogs will touch their food.
Glen sighs. “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this. We’ll have to force the capsules down again.”
Opening one cage, he tries calling the dog, but she retreats to the back of the cage. He drags her forward and she yelps the entire way, digging her feet into the cage grate. I try to hold her as gently as I can while Glen gets the capsule down her throat. She squirms and gags, but she’s so weak her struggles are halfhearted. We put her back in her cage and finish dosing the other five dogs.
Before I leave the room, I sneak a last look at Turbo, but he has his back to me and doesn’t look up or acknowledge my leaving.
50
HEATHER
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Monday, July 19
It’s been a long day. I strip out of my lab clothing, keycard my way out of the building, and step into the gray sky of a Monday evening holding off a summer storm. The sky matches my mood. In truth, I’ve been fighting a mood the entire weekend.
Standing outside SolomiChem’s glass-fronted entrance, I free my hair from its ponytail and head in the direction of the parking lot.
“Hey, Heather, wait up,” calls a voice behind me. Glen.
I turn around and force a smile. “Hey.”
Glen moves his tall, thin frame close enough that I can smell a faint whiff of garlic on his breath. “You leaving at five today? You usually leave later.”
Yes, I do. Later hours mean I can snoop around, take pictures, rifle through files, and copy documents. Not that I’ve done any of that, not yet, but as Justin said, I’m setting a pattern.
“Mondays,” I say with a rueful shrug. “You know how it is.”
“Worst day of the week,” he agrees. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“There’s no need—”
“I’d like to. Please.”
I arrived slightly late this morning so my Mazda, an eighteenth birthday present from my grandmother, is parked at the end of the lot. As we cross the asphalt together, Glen chats about his hobby, flying remote control helicopters, and I make appropriate, noncommittal noises and try to pay attention.
When we reach my car, I dig my car keys out and deposit my handbag on the passenger seat. I turn to face Glen, feeling awkward but mostly tired, wondering why he’s still hovering around.
“I was thinking of heading to the bar up the road,” Glen says casually, his brown eyes fastening on me. “The owner’s a friend of mine and won’t check IDs. Would you like to join me for a drink?”
He’s asking me out. On a date. I’m so surprised I say the first thing that comes into my head. “I don’t drink during the week.”
Glen runs his tongue over his teeth. “How about you suck on a lemonade then and I’ll have a beer.”
His tone, and the sly insinuation, make my cheeks burn. I take an uncomfortable step back. “I’m dead beat on Mondays. I won’t be any fun at all.”
“I can show you how to have fun.”
“Uh, that’s generous of you, but no, thank you. Early night for me.” I pointedly cover a yawn with my hand.
“C’mon, Heather, live a little.”
“I’m sorry I—”
