IT SEEMS LIKE THE RESEARCHERS ARE STALLING. They record everything that happened in meticulous detail, talking into their microphones and typing furiously on their laptops. I suspect it’s not just for the sake of faithful record-keeping, but because they’re dreading what comes next: telling the parents—and the rest of the world—what happened.
They haven’t asked me to leave yet, so I’m guessing they hope that this can still turn around, that the sleepers will awake on their own.
I do my best to stay inconspicuous in case they’ve actually just forgotten that I’m here. It would probably be the right thing, under the circumstances, for me to offer to leave. But I want to see what happens.
My eyes flick up to the monitor, where seven bodies lie motionless on their beds. Seven lives have been affected—possibly permanently—by a fluke of nature. Who are these kids? What kind of problems do they have that would prompt them—and their parents—to agree to such a risky experiment?
Glancing back to make sure the researchers are still absorbed in their work, I flip through my binder, turning pages as quietly as I can, until I get to the section with the subject files. It takes up half the binder. I might not get the time to read all the way through, but I’m suddenly desperate to attach real lives to the anonymous people lying below me. A strange emotion thrumming in my chest, I turn the page and start with trial subject one.
Her name is Catalina Cordova. She’s sixteen. Her official diagnosis is post-traumatic stress disorder. There are a few pages of background history written by a psychiatrist. I skim through them, picking up phrases like “abusive father,” “domestic violence,” “death of mother,” “petition filed for emancipation of minor.” I find a section entitled “legal guardian.” It states that Catalina was made a ward of the state eight months ago and is living with a friend of her late mother’s.
The last paragraph summarizes why she’s here. “Night terrors, resulting in chronic insomnia. Medication and counseling have failed to ameliorate her condition. A more radical therapy is suggested in order to avoid debilitating mental breakdown and permit possible future participation in a regular school situation instead of continuing her current homeschooled status.”
I glance up at my screen at the window labeled “1” and look at the girl. Dark hair. Tall. Pretty, or at least as she appears so in black and white on a pixelated screen. Whatever she experienced in her past must have been bad if she was willing to go through all this in order to sleep.
Although my dad died when I was twelve, I still had a reasonably good childhood. I mean, it hasn’t always been easy, but the mild bullying I had to put up with is nothing compared to violence at home. To having the person who is supposed to protect you turn out to be the one who hurts you.
I flip back to the first page, preparing to read her psychiatrist’s notes from beginning to end, when something happens on the researchers’ monitors. The feedback has been showing stable (meaning no) activity. Now it’s kicking into high gear.
“Eye movement and heart rates are spiking,” Vesper says.
Zhu leaps up to stand behind him, leaning forward to inspect his monitor. She points to a window with rows of numbers scrolling down it. “Sensors show a decrease in skeletal muscle tension.”
The two doctors watch the readouts, breathless. “It looks like they’re dreaming,” Zhu says, “but that’s impossible—their brain activity is primarily delta.” After another moment of staring at Vesper’s screen, she turns and walks down the stairs to the sleepers. “It doesn’t make sense.” She picks up one of their limp hands and taps it softly with her fingertips. “What are their bodies reacting to? They’re comatose.”
“I see some low-level theta waves,” Vesper says, leaning forward and tracing the screen with his finger. “They could be dreaming.”
“No way are they dreaming,” Zhu retorts, clenching her hands behind her back as she leans in to inspect the screens embedded in the Tower. “Their bodies could still be responding to the abrupt interruption in electric flow. They were left without electrical current for seven seconds before it kicked back in. Anything could have happened inside their minds. There’s no way we can know.”
Vesper swivels his chair to look at her. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Qiuyue, we can’t just wait around for them to wake up on their own. We have to do something.”
Zhu suddenly remembers that I’m there. “Jaime, I have no idea what is going to happen today. If you want, you can leave.”
Although I felt like getting the hell out of here earlier, there’s no way I want to go now. This isn’t my experiment: I won’t get any credit or blame. But I was here when it started, I was here when catastrophe struck, and I want to see it through to the end, whatever that turns out to be.
And even though I don’t know these kids from Adam, if the rest of their stories are anything like subject one—Catalina’s—I want them to have a second chance at a normal life. I chose medicine to help people. Not to abandon them when things look hopeless.
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay,” I say as evenly as I can. “If there’s nothing I can help you with, I’m happy to observe. I’m supposed to do at least six hours of field experience. This should count, even if you don’t get the outcome you were expecting.”
A look of despair passes between the two researchers. This is far from the outcome they were expecting. Zhu raises an eyebrow in question, and Vesper nods. She looks back at me. “You can stay while we are waiting for conditions to change. But if we have to call the paramedics again—if we get into a lifesaving situation—you will need to leave.”
“I understand,” I say. “Thank you.” I try to disappear again, hunching over my workstation and pretending to immerse myself in the test file.
Zhu and Vesper start discussing different experts they can consult. Vesper pulls out a cell phone and makes a call. He begins explaining the situation to someone he calls “Murphy.”
Zhu lets him talk a long time before interrupting him. She points to her screen. “Look. Eye, heart, and muscle activity have all lowered and returned to normal. We’re back to where we were fifty minutes ago.”
“Besides subject seven,” Vesper adds. “He’s staying at the heightened feedback.”
Zhu shakes her head in futility. Vesper closes his eyes and sighs, then continues his conversation with Murphy, reading him statistics from his screen. He hangs up and says, “Murphy says he would pull the plug on the test. Move them all to their own rooms in the ICU.”
Zhu is indignant. “What? He would move them? Why? They’re fine here. It’s better if we can keep an eye on all of them together. I am not giving up on these kids. Or on this test. I still think this can turn around, even if it means taking unforeseen action.”
“What kind of unforeseen action?” Vesper asks.
“Repeating the electrical pulses, but at a higher level,” she responds, blank-faced.
“Do you know what you’re suggesting?” Vesper asks in disbelief. “Basically shocking their brains out of a coma? You can’t just jump-start a brain like you can a heart. We’re not working with a defibrillator here. We’re working with an electric current that could easily give seven teenagers permanent brain damage if we do it wrong.”
“Or they could remain in comas if we don’t do anything,” Zhu responds. She hesitates. “There are precedents.”
“On animals,” Vesper says crisply. He pulls a Kleenex out of his pocket and mops off his face—he’s sweating profusely even though it’s chilly in here. He peers at the clock on his desk. “We’ve given it enough time. We have to tell Mike.”
Zhu sighs and throws a glance behind her at the subjects, as if hoping their condition changed in the last few minutes. Shoulders slumping, she picks up the telephone. “Jonathan, it’s Dr. Zhu. Please put me through to Mr. Osterman’s office.” She waits for a moment and then says, “Mike, we’ve got a crisis on our hands.”