Page 24 of The Invisible Roommate

At one point, they both reached for the half-empty ketchup bottle in a rusted holder. A fraction of a second’s touch sent sparks flying up Emory’s arm. Anderson smiled on one side of his mouth. Was he feeling the heat, too?

As they cleaned up, Anderson said, “I’ll get you what you need for the blood substitute. I’ll have the nurse set it aside for you to pick up tomorrow or Saturday at the latest. Let’s do this again on Tuesday.”

13

By the following Monday night, Emory’s apartment was in shambles.

The floor was littered with energy-bar wrappers, used-up pens, and water bottles he’d drunk and then refilled with urine because he refused to take his eyes off the cage for a second, even as they grew dry, and he tested the limits of his worn-down body.

Obsession held him to the spot. If he slept, it was only for minutes and entirely against his will.

After Anderson came through with every supply Emory needed to make his blood substitute, he threw himself entirely into the project. Lost in a deep haze of science and retribution, he worked fitfully.

He remained inside the stuffy, dim chamber of the upstairs apartment with the unseeable company of Marvel Jr. in his cage, the only witness to his unfolding, continuous brilliance.

When Joe told Regina that Emory hadn’t shown up for work that morning, she came knocking several times to ask if everything was all right.

Everything was better than all right, because three days gone and he’d done it.

In his hands he held the phantom weight of Marvel Jr., except Marvel Jr. wasn’t a phantom at all. He was invisible. Totally, completely invisible.

No matter if he held him near the lamp or the window, light passed right through Marvel Jr. as he breathed and bathed himself. The blood substitute had taken nicely.

Emory Griffin may not have been a true doctor, but that day, as he furiously wrote up his findings, he declared himself a genius.

A genius who would finally get his moment in the spotlight along with the world renown he craved and now rightfully deserved.

On Tuesday night, Emory cleaned himself up and raced down to Christine’s to meet Anderson, who waited for him at the same picnic table. “You’re smiling. I assume that means you bring good news.”

Emory barely touched his meal as he detailed the intricate invention of this miracle protein and the successful transfusion. The excitement Anderson displayed invigorated Emory. Finally, someone who saw him and his work.

After their plates were cleared and Anderson picked up the check without contestation, he popped a fragrant peppermint candy into his mouth and asked pointedly, “Do I get to meet him?”

“Who?” Emory asked, distracted by Anderson’s bobbing Adam’s apple. Discovery had his emotions twisted all the way up to a ten, including his lust.

“Marvel the marvelous disappearing mouse…”

Introducing Anderson to Marvel Jr. meant inviting Anderson back to his apartment, meant being alone in a room together. A room with a bed! The idea excited and terrified Emory so much that his knees knocked a little under the table. Anderson flashed the keys to his uncle’s golf cart. “Happy to drive.”

Emory agreed.

At the door to the apartment, Emory paused. “Do you mind if I go in first and tidy up?”

“By all means,” Anderson said, the shining example of perfect bedside manner. Emory imagined where Anderson worked on the mainland and all the patients at his office who left with both an arm sling and a raging crush.

Inside the apartment, Emory flung dirty clothes under the bed and tucked his research into the bedside table. “Don’t embarrass me, okay?” he whispered to Marvel Jr. Emory glanced into the mirror in the bathroom and fixed his white-blond hair, which he’d washed but which had grown lifeless in the heat of the day.

Anderson looked up from his phone when the door opened. Backlit by the sun, he gave the impression of some sort of heaven-sent angel, if Emory believed at all in religion.

In the shabby apartment with Anderson, the walls felt exceedingly close, like one wrong step and they could be in each other’s breathing space. Not that Emory would’ve minded.

Anderson moved with a directness over to the desk, where he hunched down to inspect Marvel Jr. Emory had no idea how to feel. Sharing his research was as vulnerable as being naked.

“This is incredible,” Anderson said.

“But credible, right? You’re seeing it with your own two eyes.” After so many nights alone, Emory started to second-guess his faculties despite Marvel Jr. as tangible evidence.

“Right,” Anderson said, eyes shifting sideways toward Emory’s face. Emory’s cheeks scorched to a temperature he hadn’t thought was humanly possible. “This was a subcutaneous serum injection?”