He sits beside me, so close that I can feel the heat of his presence, but he hasn’t reached for my arm yet. So I place it right beside his.
His voice remains patient. “You don’t meet the requirements of your own study, Em.”
“I do meet them,” I say. “I meet them in ways none of the others can.”
“Em…” A shaky exhale leaves him, while his eyes search mine. “What do you mean?”
“I qualify. Prenatal exposure of the first formula.”
Idris stares at my outstretched arm. “I see. Thank you for trustingme with that, Em.”
His hand rises, hovers for a moment, then rests lightly on my forearm.
“What do you need me to do?” he asks.
“Take a sample of my blood, and then tomorrow, I’ll start taking the Kysergic Synesthesine we reinvented.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he says with his smile reaching his eyes this time.
He prepares the kit, movements certain after doing this all day with other subjects. His proximity proves to stabilize my nerves.
The needle enters. Idris watches my reaction. I keep my expression as neutral as possible, watching the vial fill with my blood.
After a few full vials, he removes the needle and places gauze over my arm, his thumb pressing on the pressure point. “Perfect,” he murmurs to himself.
My pulse remains elevated for several seconds longer than it should. It’s a variable worth noting, but I file it away with the rest of the feelings gathering in my chest. The files reside in my mind, safe from dwelling too long.
I stay in the chair with the gauze on my arm while Idris stands at the console connected to my tablet. The computer runs my results, each line building toward an answer I’ve avoided for years.
Prenatal exposure to the first formula of the drug. The one that altered minds before the drug became a threat. I’ve never known what it left behind in me. I’ve only theorized.
My mother took it to have enough money to raise me alone. That was the first experiment that made Kys. Now this experiment will both rewrite it and show the truth to me—if it did any damage to me before birth. I’ll finally know what’s wrong with me.
Idris stands closer to the monitor. His shoulders raise as though he’s bracing himself. The tension spreads through me in a chillyclimb up my spine.
The readouts finalize one by one. My heart rate increases as the last panel loads. I prepare to see irregularities. I’ve prepared for that possibility all my life.
But Idris stands in the way. I try to distract myself, thinking of how the Adels and Song-Smiths have invested in this type of technology for my experiment. For my ambition to make Kys safe. For my own personal reasons.
Then I watch Idris’ body language change. His tension dissolves. He turns toward me with a big grin.
“Em,” he says, sounding rather thrilled, “your results are normal.”
Normal. That one word rings in my ears for several seconds. He gives me the time to process my own relief.
My eyes water at the brim. My lashes feel heavy as they flutter. Heavy breaths leave my lips.
I rise from the chair, instinctively moving toward the screen, but Idris still stands blocking my view.
His hand lifts. “You can look later,” he whispers. “Right now, we should stop working. Let me bring dinner to your room, Em.”
“I can get that myself,” I say, confused.
“It’d make me happy to do it,” he insists. “You’ve spent all day taking care of everyone else. Let me take care of you.”
He reaches for my hand, taking it tenderly in his.
“And after dinner,” he adds, “you can have me for dessert.”
