Emmett thrashed on the operating table, the restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. The spinning blade descended. He screamed as it ripped a horizontal line through his forehead.
Finally the pressure broke. Something clacked against the floor. A chill invaded the open cavity of his cranium: cold where it was never meant to be felt. Worse, the surgeons seemed not to like what they were seeing—murmured darkly to themselves, shook their heads.
“What’s wrong?” he gasped. “W-what’re you going to—”
His words exploded again into screams. His body raged against the violation of latex fingers in his skull, scrabbling for purchase on the slippery coils of his brain.
A wet, sucking sound—
Then Emmett collapsed. Zonked. Literally lightheaded.
“Don’t worry, sport. You won’t miss it.”
The surgeon dropped the brain into the metal tray with afwap.
Lizette agreed, sneering. “Not worth shit.”
CHAPTER 5
Emmett jolted awake. Morning light slanted in through the blinds, slicing the bedroom into orderly chunks: the wobbly IKEA desk, the rumpled T.J. Maxx comforter, the Pokémon posters tacked up to the wall, corners heavily pricked after multiple moves. Rent hikes had forced Emmett and Lizette to switch apartments three times in five years before they found the Cabana Apartments, a pair of charmingly stained stucco buildings in Point Loma near his dad’s old condo. A mile to work and two to the beach. An airplane departing from San Diego International blared overhead, an occurrence so constant they barely noticed it anymore.
For a moment Emmett felt as if he were still in the dream, the surgeons standing just out of sight.What was that about?
He reached across to the nightstand and hit the button on his CPAP, halting the flow of air through his face mask. Bella, tucked up beside him, shot to her feet; when the machine went off, it was time to get up.
Emmett had been diagnosed with sleep apnea at twenty-six, embarrassed because the condition was a common symptom of obesity, relieved because he finally knew why he always felt exhausted even after a full night’s sleep. It turned out he’d barely been sleeping at all. Without a continuous stream of air through his airway, his slackened throat muscles collapsed under the fat bearing down on them. His at-home sleep trial had shown he’d stopped breathing up to eighteen times per hour, unknowingly snorting himself awake each time. His brain’s automatic response to his body’s casual attempts to murder him.
Emmett removed his mask and tossed it onto the nightstand, rubbed at the ring of raw skin around his nose. He wasn’t needed at work until one but got up anyway, finding Armando at the stove in boxers and a band tee, making breakfast for Lizette, who was still in bed.
They greeted each other with a few easy words of good morning, Emmett careful to keep his eyes where they belonged. Armando wasmid-twenties and cute, a “bear cub” in gay terms. Emmett liked Armando but resented him too. After four years of on-and-off dating, it seemed inevitable that one day he’d snatch Lizette away forever, and then what would Emmett have?
“What’re you up to today?” Emmett asked, switching on the coffeemaker.
“Got a game at noon. You oughta come.” Armando was a shortstop for the Coyotes in the San Diego Adult Baseball League. Since they’d started practicing at the nearby community ball field, he’d been staying over even more often.
“Sorry, got work.”
“Bad luck. Want some eggs?”
Emmett declined; he rarely ate breakfast, usually too full from last night’s dinner.
While his iced coffee brewed, he looked at his phone and saw that Monstera BioSciences had emailed. An invitation to apply to join the clinical trial. He said bye to Armando and took the coffee back to his room.
The online form wasn’t so different from the job applications he’d been firing off in his increasingly desperate efforts to leave Target. The most recent one, submitted the previous week, had been for his dream job as a full-time achievement coach for Future Makers. He’d practically squealed when he saw the posting. The pay was above twenty bucks an hour, and he not only met butexceededthe requirements—they were only asking for a bachelor’s degree and experience working with youth. He was the ideal candidate (except for the obvious). Even as he worked on the Monstera application, he couldn’t help checking his email for a response, as he had been for days. No luck.
He returned to the online form. In addition to asking his weight, height, and medical history, the application required him to answer several questions.Why do you want to join this clinical trial? Describe your weight loss journey to this point. How do you feel Obexity™would improve your and others’ lives?
Then, a curveball:
Who knows you are completing this application?
Unable to justify the tickle of discomfort at the back of his mind, he began to type.
My best friend Lizette’s probably figured it out—she came to the info session with me and knows I want to do the trial, even though she’s going to judge me for it. Other than that, no one?? I don’t think I’ll tell my family. My brother Chris wouldn’t understand why I don’t just “hit the gym” if I want to lose weight. My sister Abby would act concerned—or maybe supportive, depending on the day—then gossip about me to my mom and Chris. My dad would probably approve, but I barely talk to him these days. Mom would obsess, either with worry or interest in the outcome—I’m guessing a combination of both.
Honestly, I can’t stand the thought of getting her hopes up only to disappoint her when this all turns out to be (no offense) another failed weight loss experiment. I’ve disappointed her—all of them—enough for one lifetime.
Emmett paused, then hammered the backspace key, abbreviating his answer to a less vulnerable level of earnestness. He probably ought to wait and read it over later on, but he was eager to get it off his plate. He hit submit.
