Weeks pass. Five weeks. Thirty-seven days. He keeps count. Thirty-seven identical days. They all watch him. They run their tests. He puts his hand out for Judith Mocker but no one else. “Just a little, enough for the test,” she promises each time she comes with the needle. They bring him bloody meat from the freezer and he eats it. People are always coming into the laboratory to see him. Familiar faces and faces he has never seen before. They all watch him.
And while they are watching him, he watches them.
Five weeks. Thirty-seven days.
He has watched and waited.
And none of them, not even Judith Mocker—not even Maribelle—has suspected.
“Hey! What’s the matter with him?!”
“Shit! Looks like he’s havin’ some kind of seizure!”
Not even Maribelle.
They slide one of their plastic cards through its respective slot and the door to his cage swings open with a click.
There are three of them. There are always fewer at night. Every night. Two of them are younger men in those starchy white lab smocks. They enter the cage. The third is older than them, black-skinned, like the Warumbi back in Africa. He wears the uniform of a security guard. He grabs the bright red telephone receiver off the wall and begins pressing buttons.
They all do just as Adam expected they would. Calling for help. He will not have much time.
“Get his heart rate!”
So concerned about the specimen. He rolls on the bare floor of the cage and clutches his abdomen, his legs kicking, saliva frothing down his jowls, his eyes rolled back in their sockets.
“I think he swallowed his tongue! He’s choking!”
Not one of them suspects a thing. Not until it’s too late.