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Every muscle in my body locked tight when the door opened again, as I waited for the shit to hit the fan. But it was just the food Oz had promised earlier. He stayed the perfect distance away as he deposited a bowl of soup in front of us. His previous experience obviously informed the carefully calculated gap, which made me wonder how many other people he had kept here, and what had happened to them.

“Vegetable,” he said, with that same smile I was already growing sick of. And the reason I was growing sick of it was that, as one conman to another, I recognized the phoniness of it. “I have a little greenhouse where I grow vegetables. It’s the perfect place because it gets the afternoon sun. I’ve got potatoes, leeks, carrots, and cauliflower. I even got some asparagus to grow. It wouldn’t win any prizes for its beauty, but it tastes good. My mother started growing things there, and I’ve carried it on as a tribute to her. Well, that and it’s always good to eat healthily.”

“What happened to your mother?” Keaton asked.

I knew what Keaton was doing. He was trying to find some common ground with Oz. He hadn’t yet realized he was beyond reasoning with. Anyone who went to the extremes of riddling the surrounding area with booby traps wasn’t suddenly going to say whoops, my mistake, and let us go.

“My father got out one day, and he ate her.” Oz let out another of those little giggles. Given the statement that had prompted it, it turned my stomach. “Which is kind of sweet when you think about it.”

“How so?” I asked, surprised by how conversational I made it sound when what I really wanted was to tell him what a sick fuck he was.

“She’ll always be a part of him. It’s romantic.”

Keaton didn’t look like he found it romantic. He looked like he wanted to bash Oz’s brains in with his bare hands.

Oz backed away. “Enjoy.” The door closed, and footsteps disappeared down the corridor.

“It just gets better and better,” Keaton said.

“Yeah…” Oz’d left a chipped mug full of water by the soup. I picked it up and sniffed it.

Keaton laughed. “I don’t think he’d bother drugging anything else when he’s got syringes at his disposal.” He maneuvered the bowl of soup onto his lap. Despite his words, there was a noticeable hesitation between his dipping his spoon into the liquid and bringing it to his lips and tasting it. When he did, his eyebrows shot up. “It’s good!” He ate a few more spoonfuls. “We should probably keep our strength up. We’re not going to be ready to escape if we’re as weak as kittens.”

“I’m waiting to see if you drop dead first.” All I got for that was a toothy grin, Keaton too busy eating to comment. Eventually, I gave in, eating all the soup—which was good—and drinking all the water. “We need to spend less time tied up,” I observed once our bowls were empty. “It’s getting ridiculous.”

Keaton snorted. “True. First you. Then me. Now, both of us.”

I kept thinking I could hear footsteps, my gaze lifting to the door, only for it not to open. The sensible thing would be to tell Keaton the truth before it came out any other way. But I was hanging on to the hope that Oz’s credentials as a scientist were as phony as the rest of him. Being honest would create bad blood between us. We needed to be united against Oz, not locked in the inevitable battle the truth would create.

The pipe dream of Oz having zero abilities as a scientist lasted until mid-afternoon, Keaton and I having filled the time by discussing things so mundane it was a miracle we’d remained awake. Mid-afternoon was when Oz burst through the door.

“You!” he said, immediately rounding on me, his hair even frizzier, like he’d been running his hands through it non-stop since the last time we’d seen him. “I should be angry with you, but I’m too damn happy to be angry. You are going to be so useful. I’ve been waiting for a man like you. I’m not a religious man, but if I were, I might have prayed for your arrival. Dad’s over the moon, too.”

“What’s he talking about?” Keaton asked.

Oz answered for me. “Tobias has been telling a few porkies. Haven’t you, Tobias? He’s immune!”

I watched Keaton’s face, his expression passing through confusion, realization, and then settling on annoyance. I expected that annoyance to grow, to become fully fledged anger by the time Oz worked his excitement out of his system. “Do you know how many people I’ve caught in my traps?” he asked, aiming the question my way, as if Keaton had ceased to exist.

I shook my head.

“One hundred and three.”

“That’s a lot of people.”

“And do you know how many of those people were immune?”

I shook my head again.

“A big, fat zero.” Oz started pacing within the confines of the small room. Maybe he’d get so carried away, he’d come close enough that Keaton or I could strike. Maybe this revelation could be a good thing. So far though, he’d been careful to maintain the gap. There were keys in his lab coat pocket; I could see the outline. To the door? To the chains?

“So imagine my surprise,” Oz said, gesticulating with his hands as he talked, “when I added the virus to a drop of your blood and examined it under the microscope. What do you think happened to your blood cells?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice flat. “I already told you I’m not much of a science person.”

Oz shot me a disappointed look. “You could at least have a guess.”

“Nothing?”