When the girl in the lemon dress reached the boys, she jumped onto the one closest to her and wrapped her arms around his neck, pushing him forward with her momentum. Her curls bounced around. She pulled his hair, kept yanking at it, and all the other boys paused. Still he thrashed. She slapped the top of his head as if she were playing a bongo drum. Still no one yelled. The boy stood straight, and the girl allowed herself to be dropped off his back. They started to make out while all the others—and an older man sitting on a bench—watched.
9
That night, a storm kept Lena awake. Hail rattled against her windows, the wind argued with itself, and she could hear a dog in the apartment next door whining after each thunder clap. The rain, a sound that usually made her sleep deeply, sounded as if it was clawing and scratching its way through the building’s bricks.
Around six a.m., Lena turned her alarm off, and realized she didn’t own a coffeemaker. She ate her breakfast, washed the dishes, changed. Every motion took effort. She yawned twice, three times. In the parking lot there were five lawn chairs—red and white gingham—where she almost tripped over a tree branch. Her windshield was shattered over the driver’s seat. Glass decorated the car’s insides. The offending branch’s leaves wet on the wheel and on the seat.
“Shit,” Lena said. “Triple shit.”
The air was silver. No one else was around; there weren’t any lights or televisions on in the apartments facing the driveway. Lena went back to her apartment, dug a jacket out of one of her boxes, and then called the number Dr. Lisa had given her. A person on the line said they would take care of her car for her, and then connected her with Charlie, who lived two blocks over.
He showed up with two cups of coffee and they drank it while looking over her smashed windshield.
“Well, welcome to Lakewood,” Charlie said.
On the way to work in his car, they stopped at a small brick house. “Be back in two.”
He removed fallen branches from the sidewalk and pushed the tipped-over garbage and recycling bins inside the garage. Next to the mailbox was a tipped-over tomato cage that Charlie righted, though nothing seemed to be growing yet. When he got back in the car there was dark soil underneath his fingernails. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Sorry about that.”
“Is that your house?” Lena leaned forward in her seat.
“It’s Mrs. Thompson’s. My second-grade teacher. My parents said I was in love with her when I was eight. So, they think it’s really funny to make jokes now that I help her out. When she’s away I take care of the garden. In winter I shovel the walks.” He put on his sunglasses and drove with his knees. “My mom’s favorite joke is ‘My daughter-in-law and I can share a room in the retirement home.’”
“Sounds annoying.”
“It can be a little funny sometimes.” Charlie yawned. “She was a good teacher. And her husband’s been sick a long time.”
Lena liked how kind his voice sounded while he talked about his mom and teacher.
“Can I ask you an awkward question?”
“You just did.”
Lena sipped her coffee. She didn’t know Charlie well enough to know if he was teasing her or if he thought she was being annoying. He was taking the back roads, passing old houses. Long, spindly plants that looked like asparagus were growing alongside the road.
“Sorry. Ask your question.”
“Why do you think they’re doing these experiments? What do you think they’re trying to learn?”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to ask that question.” He drummed a little on the steering wheel.
“That’s why I’m asking you.”
“I can’t figure it out. I think it’s something about memory.” Charlie made a noncommittal noise.
He pointed to a store on the right called Family Home and told Lena when he was a kid, all his friends had refused to go inside. They said it was built on an Indian burial ground and the ghosts of the people buried there haunted the entire store. The ghosts were especially interested in little white kids. They wanted to punish the ancestors of those who had wronged them. It was a weird mix, he said, of racism and historical self-awareness.
He kept talking in an obvious let’s-change-the-subject way, pointing out the Wendy’s and a chain mattress store he pretended were Lakewood originals. The Wendy’s family has lived here for seven generations, perfecting their hamburger recipe. One day, they’ll be world famous.
“I read online that people in other countries were disappearing and being forced into studies like these.”
“Lena.” Charlie’s voice was easy and smooth. “Don’t ruin this for yourself. You have to have a good reason for being here.”
“I do. I need money for school,” she said, surprising herself with the lie. She opened her bag and made herself busy rummaging around for sunglasses, pulling out mint gum. “Thanks again for the coffee.”
In the office, the observers handed out their Day 2 slips. Lena’s read Day 2: Lena. You accidentally deleted a bunch of files. You were too scared to tell Charlie (the manager). Tom (IT) helped restore the files. You forgot your lunch and split a pizza with him and Mariah (HR). Your earpiece still hurts.
Then they were given their morning assignments. Charlie and Ian were taken upstairs. Lena and Bethany were given handbooks about their jobs. They practiced taking phone calls and read theoretical situations. Lena’s book asked her what she would do if a driver was late bringing an extra-large shipment of pickles. After reading the handbook, she watched some tutorials about how to build a database.
Halfway through the day, Bethany knocked on Lena’s cubicle. “Hello, Neighbor. I’m Bethany and I live over there.” She pointed to the receptionist’s desk. They shook hands and made small talk about how annoying learning all these computer programs was and oh, wow, what a storm that was last night. Bethany was wearing a lot of blush, with her hair up in a high ponytail that looked painful.
“You see him?” Bethany nodded at the man with a large beard, Indian. The IT guy.
“Tom?”
Tom was wearing a navy polo shirt and khakis. He was sitting at a long table, taking notes, and wearing headphones. He looked as if he was on the verge of tears.
“I heard from Ian.” Bethany pointed at a desk. “That Tom is doing a solo experiment to explore the grieving process. He’s listening to audio recordings of his dead wife’s voice.”
“That’s—” Lena couldn’t choose whether to say awful, terrible, or sad.
“Romantic, right?” Bethany turned and went back to her desk.
After another hour of tutorials, an observer came over and told Lena it was her turn upstairs. Lena got excited as she took the stairs. Maybe there was a cool thing—some incredible new technology, aliens, a cool health breakthrough—she was going to get to see. The observer led her to a small room that looked like a doctor’s examination room. A sink, a counter, framed drawings of potted plants behind the examination table. Dr. Lisa was sitting on a low stool, holding a clipboard and writing something.
She took Lena’s blood pressure, her temperature. “Healthy.”
“Great,” Lena said.