I AM ALMOST SURE NOW THAT THE PERIODS OF heightened heart rates and muscle tension are phases of dreaming for the subjects and that the stable periods are NREM. I have kept a list of the phases—they vary slightly in length, but are close enough to be consistent. If I’m right about this, including the normal twenty-minute REM phase before the system crashed, the subjects are coming to the end of the fifth dream cycle.
I watch as the timer I set on my computer hits fifty minutes, and get ready to jot the time in my notebook. But fifty minutes passes with no change. With a feeling of uneasiness, I watch the numbers climb. Fifty-one minutes. Fifty-two. Could I have been wrong?
I prop my forehead on my hand and think about what an idiot I’ve been. Who am I to think I would know more than these researchers who have decades of experience? The phases have probably been a fluke, and I’ve just been grasping at straws because I want to be able to do something. Not just to look good to Zhu and Vesper, but because I actually want to help.
I begin to shut my notebook, and then I hear the beeping of the monitors decelerate. I look up. It’s been fifty-three minutes. That’s close enough. I pick up my pen to note the time and activity. And then I realize that the beeping hasn’t slowed on two of the monitors.
Subject seven’s feedback has never stabilized, staying at the heightened rate this whole time, so that’s not odd. But it sounds like this time another subject hasn’t stabilized either.
This gets the doctors’ attention. They hover around Vesper’s monitor for a moment, examining the readouts, and then walk down into the test area and head for Subject two: Fergus.
“He’s showing eye movement,” Vesper says, “and his heart rate is still elevated.”
He’s still dreaming, I think.
And, as if she read my mind, Zhu turns to Vesper with a curious expression. “Do you think they might actually be dreaming? You mentioned it before, but maybe I shot you down too fast.”
My guess was right, I think, feeling vindicated. But Vesper shakes his head.
“No. dreaming would be impossible with the delta brain waves. I agree with you that what we’re seeing is the aftereffects of the interrupted electrical current. Their bodies are obviously working through the shock that it induced.”
I feel like butting in. Like showing them the chart I made. But, like a coward, I stay silent and listen as they drop the topic and move on.
“Those aftereffects obviously affected subject three in a way her body couldn’t manage,” Zhu says with a frown. “What if that happens to one of the others?”
“Subject three’s heart might have already been weakened by her anorexia,” Vesper suggests. “We’ll know more after the autopsy.”
“Yes, well, subject seven isn’t in the best of health either,” Zhu says, glancing at the boy.
“His problem is in his brain, not his heart,” Vesper replies, joining her to stare at him. “I never thought I would see one of these cases. There are so few. But he got to you so late. Too late, I’m afraid.”
My curiosity is piqued. What could they be talking about? I decide to look at subject seven’s file next.
“I don’t want to take any more chances,” Zhu says, glancing back at Fergus, and then walking back to her station. She picks up her phone. “Yes, this is Zhu in Lab One. I would like six life-support systems delivered immediately, including oxygen and defibrillators.”
She gets off the phone and sighs. “By the way, Frankel agreed to a Skype session with us in a half hour. Hopefully, he’ll have some ideas.”
Zhu and Vesper take their seats and begin going over the events, detail by minuscule detail. Seeing that they are immersed in their conversation, I open the folder to subject seven’s file, but am distracted by a flashing icon on my computer screen. It’s a new message—from Hal.
Nothing really juicy to flag on most of the names you gave me. Only two of them had police files. The Fergus guy was picked up by the cops a few times, but those were incidents where he passed out or something. One minor car wreck, a few wipeouts including pedestrians on bicycles. Sounds like the guy is massively uncoordinated.
However, was able to get into the NYPD file for Sinclair Hartford, and man, someone could write a novel about this guy’s past. The stuff on his regular police file all clicks with Manhattan rich-kid stuff. Minor drug possession, breaking and entering, fights . . . Sounds like the type who knows Mommy and Daddy will bail him out. BUT . . . the locked file. That’s where things get interesting.
About three years ago, he was questioned about the suicide of one of his schoolmates. He had been the girl’s only friend, apparently, and the day after she died he turned in a suicide note she had given him for her parents “in case.” He was reprimanded for not bringing it to anyone’s attention in time to save her.
The year after that, he was present at a violent mugging, where another kid from his parents’ social club was stabbed to death. Sinclair got away with minor injuries.
And just last year, there was an incident where one of the teenage residents of his building got locked into one of the basement storage spaces and died. The dead kids’ parents said he had been hanging around with Sinclair recently. But there was no evidence linking him to the accident, and he had an alibi: he and his parents were out of town the weekend the boy got locked in.
Since nothing came of it, his parents raised a stink and had the judge seal the file in case of future prejudice.
I write back, asking for one last favor.
His response is immediate: Let me get this right. You want me to hack into this kid’s shrink’s computer?
I write him back saying I swear I’ll return the favor somehow.
His message back: Are you kidding? I haven’t had this much fun since Anonymous had me track Assange. This one’s on me!