walking. “You do.”
“You’re calling my bluff?” I ask.
“We both know you have a horrible hand,” she says, stopping. A square of rooftop before her comes to life, rising up. A black rectangle, ten feet tall, six wide, emerges from below and stops, looking like a futuristic megalith. And then it opens, revealing an elevator. Allenby steps inside and turns around. With a single raised eyebrow and a matching grin, she says, “Coming?”
* * *
Stepping out of the elevator, we enter a hallway that defies all of my expectations. Given the stark feel of the building’s obsidian surface, I expected something similar to the SafeHaven floor—stark, gleaming white, and brightly lit. Instead, it’s … homey. Warm hardwood floors. A thick, oriental runner down the middle of the hall. End tables with a variety of lamps. “This doesn’t look like a laboratory.”
“It isn’t,” Allenby says. “It’s the residential level.” She starts down the hall. She stops three doors down on the right. “This is your room.”
I feel like I’m in some sort of strange dream, and peek into the room, which is more than a room. It’s an apartment. From the doorway, I can see a kitchenette, living room, and dining area. The furnishing is comfortable. The brushed metal appliances are modern. The d é cor is casual, almost primitive, with wooden carvings and emotionally charged, modern oil paintings.
I step inside.
I’m drawn inside.
Immediate comfort washes over me. My muscles relax. “How did you do it?”
“What?” she asks.
I motion to the apartment. “ This . I don’t think I could have told you what I would like in an apartment, but … this is it. Every detail feels … right. Like home.”
“I’m not an interior decorator,” she says.
A painting in the living room attracts my attention. It’s a two-foot square of color—thick dabs of red radiate out from the middle to orange, yellow, and a hint of green around the fringe.
“How does it make you feel?” Allenby asks.
“I thought you were a medical doctor.”
She steps up beside me, eyes on the painting. “I’m not evaluating you.”
“Yes you are,” I say. “How does it make you feel?”
“Melancholy.” She turns away and heads back toward the door.
“Well, it makes me hungry.” I turn toward the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by an island. I open the fridge and find it fully stocked. Most of it looks healthy, but hiding in the door, among the brand-new bottles of condiments and cups of chocolate pudding, is a Snickers bar and a can of Cherry Pepsi.
My mouth salivates and both hands reach out, claiming the prizes. The wrapper comes off faster than a male stripper’s pants. I take a bite and moan with pleasure. I haven’t had something this sweet since … well, I can’t remember. While taking a second bite, I pop the soda top with one hand and, before swallowing the mash of chocolate, caramel, peanuts, and nougat in my mouth, drain half the can.
“You clearly don’t fear diabetes, either,” Allenby says.
I raise the can as though giving a toast. “Or sugar lows.” Three more bites, two drinks, and sixty-five grams of sugar later, my meal is done.
“Ready to go?” Allenby asks.
I take a step to follow her. “Actually…” I look around the room and realize that I’m not turning my head. The room is spinning. I grip the island to keep from falling over.
“Whoa there,” Allenby says. I feel her holding my arms, steadying me. “Let’s get you to the couch.”
I let her guide me. The couch is just fifteen feet away, but it feels like I’m walking through knee-deep mud to reach it.
“Okay,” she says, guiding me down. “Slowly. Slowly.”
I fall from her grasp, but the couch catches me. I try to open my eyes but lack the strength. Allenby places her fingers against my neck, checking my pulse. With a sigh, she stands back up and says, “He’s out.”
A door opens and a new voice,
“You’re calling my bluff?” I ask.
“We both know you have a horrible hand,” she says, stopping. A square of rooftop before her comes to life, rising up. A black rectangle, ten feet tall, six wide, emerges from below and stops, looking like a futuristic megalith. And then it opens, revealing an elevator. Allenby steps inside and turns around. With a single raised eyebrow and a matching grin, she says, “Coming?”
* * *
Stepping out of the elevator, we enter a hallway that defies all of my expectations. Given the stark feel of the building’s obsidian surface, I expected something similar to the SafeHaven floor—stark, gleaming white, and brightly lit. Instead, it’s … homey. Warm hardwood floors. A thick, oriental runner down the middle of the hall. End tables with a variety of lamps. “This doesn’t look like a laboratory.”
“It isn’t,” Allenby says. “It’s the residential level.” She starts down the hall. She stops three doors down on the right. “This is your room.”
I feel like I’m in some sort of strange dream, and peek into the room, which is more than a room. It’s an apartment. From the doorway, I can see a kitchenette, living room, and dining area. The furnishing is comfortable. The brushed metal appliances are modern. The d é cor is casual, almost primitive, with wooden carvings and emotionally charged, modern oil paintings.
I step inside.
I’m drawn inside.
Immediate comfort washes over me. My muscles relax. “How did you do it?”
“What?” she asks.
I motion to the apartment. “ This . I don’t think I could have told you what I would like in an apartment, but … this is it. Every detail feels … right. Like home.”
“I’m not an interior decorator,” she says.
A painting in the living room attracts my attention. It’s a two-foot square of color—thick dabs of red radiate out from the middle to orange, yellow, and a hint of green around the fringe.
“How does it make you feel?” Allenby asks.
“I thought you were a medical doctor.”
She steps up beside me, eyes on the painting. “I’m not evaluating you.”
“Yes you are,” I say. “How does it make you feel?”
“Melancholy.” She turns away and heads back toward the door.
“Well, it makes me hungry.” I turn toward the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by an island. I open the fridge and find it fully stocked. Most of it looks healthy, but hiding in the door, among the brand-new bottles of condiments and cups of chocolate pudding, is a Snickers bar and a can of Cherry Pepsi.
My mouth salivates and both hands reach out, claiming the prizes. The wrapper comes off faster than a male stripper’s pants. I take a bite and moan with pleasure. I haven’t had something this sweet since … well, I can’t remember. While taking a second bite, I pop the soda top with one hand and, before swallowing the mash of chocolate, caramel, peanuts, and nougat in my mouth, drain half the can.
“You clearly don’t fear diabetes, either,” Allenby says.
I raise the can as though giving a toast. “Or sugar lows.” Three more bites, two drinks, and sixty-five grams of sugar later, my meal is done.
“Ready to go?” Allenby asks.
I take a step to follow her. “Actually…” I look around the room and realize that I’m not turning my head. The room is spinning. I grip the island to keep from falling over.
“Whoa there,” Allenby says. I feel her holding my arms, steadying me. “Let’s get you to the couch.”
I let her guide me. The couch is just fifteen feet away, but it feels like I’m walking through knee-deep mud to reach it.
“Okay,” she says, guiding me down. “Slowly. Slowly.”
I fall from her grasp, but the couch catches me. I try to open my eyes but lack the strength. Allenby places her fingers against my neck, checking my pulse. With a sigh, she stands back up and says, “He’s out.”
A door opens and a new voice,
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