Emmett’s stomach dropped. “You’re saying… I have diabetes?”
“Almost enough for two.”
The silence welcomed a horrible, gushing dread. His eyes welled with tears. He faced the building to hide them from the drivers circling the side parking lot.
It had happened, the thing he’d dreaded more than anything. The ambient terror he had lived with for years, crystallized at last into flashing, bladelike reality.
The thought occurred like a cruel joke:You always wanted a diagnosis to go with your obesity. Now you have one.
True to form, Halleck reminded Emmett of the potentially fatal health impacts, but already his tears were slowing, the gushing dread bobbing back down his chest. He couldn’t pretend to be surprised by the news; it was probably inevitable. On some level, Emmett felt, it was what he deserved.
“Will I have to take insulin?”
“Only as a last resort. You want to try managing it first. It’s possible to reverse the effects just through diet and exercise. If your A1C’s still up in three months, we can try you on metformin—”
“So I guess the clinical trial…” There was a wobble in Emmett’svoice, the emotion rebounding. He’d been so close to freeing himself, so close to being happy. Of all the fat fucks competing for a place in the trial, why did this have to happen to him?
“It should help,” Halleck said, “but you should still change your diet.”
“Sorry. You said—”
“The trial. You still want to do it, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, of course but… this doesn’t disqualify me?”
“Why would it?”
“I don’t know, I just—” The realization clubbed him over the head. “So I’m approved?”
“I’ll send the paperwork to Monstera this afternoon. I have to go—”
“Just one more—”
“If you have questions, call the receptionist and make another appointment.” The line went dead.
Asshole, Emmett thought.
But the irritation burned off like the morning gloom. Despite the roller coaster of emotions Halleck had put him through, Emmett was smiling.
Only as he returned to the store did it sink in. So much was riding on the outcome of this trial. Not just his weight and his finances and his fragile dream of rekindling things with Aaron, but now his quality of life too.
Perhaps he had every reason to hope, but he’d also never had more to lose.
CHAPTER 12
The official congratulations came in a thick white envelope delivered to Emmett’s home. The trial would commence with the inpatient gene therapy procedure, provisionally scheduled for May 8—just a few days away—at the Cronus Health Medical Complex in San Marcos, pending timely receipt of his signed paperwork. Reams of it were enclosed: enrollment forms, medical waivers, a compensation contract, direct deposit forms, a nondisclosure agreement requiring his notarized consent.
Emmett would be kept under strict confidentiality—no social media posts mentioning the trial, not a word to friends or family. He was permitted to confide in only one emergency contact, in case he should find himself incapacitated and unable to communicate details of the trial to EMTs. They too would have to provide a notarized signature.
He thought about it overnight and asked Lizette (leaving out the bit about incapacitation). He probably should have chosen a family member, but he still couldn’t bear the thought of their judgment or, worse, their support. It would only heighten their disappointment when it all went to shit.
So that he could say he’d done his due diligence, he paged through the enclosed seventy-page report disclosing the results of the Phase I trial, which had taken place the previous year and involved twenty-eight participants between the ages of eighteen and seventy-four. The report was written in dense scientific prose presented in lengthy single-spaced paragraphs broken up only by the odd line graph or scatter chart illustrating fluctuations in this hormone or that triglyceride. One graph seemed to show a gradual decline in participants’ blood sugar levels, which Emmett took as good news for his diabetes. So much so that he gave a pass to the less auspicious findings, for example that participants had reported “increased incidence of short-term memory loss” and “side effects including nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, diarrhea, IBS, and IED.” Emmett recognized the acronym for irritable bowel syndrome, but IED?Improvised explosive device? Industrial emissions directive? Intermittent explosive disorder, a “condition marked by frequent impulsive outbursts of anger, aggression, or violence”? That couldn’t be right, could it?
None of it sounded great, but every drug had potential side effects, and only a handful of participants seemed to have been affected. Measured against how much better his life would be if Obexity really worked, the potential side effects were barely a consideration.
Having flicked quickly through the rest of the report, he completed his signatures, went with Lizette to get the NDA notarized, sealed the forms in the provided envelope, and dropped them into the outgoing mailbox. It was a weight off his shoulders.
Another remained.
