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“No… at least I don’t think—”

“And your sciatica! Your arthritis… and mine! Do you think I like this?” He holds up his hands. The knuckles are swollen, and he can straighten his fingers only with an effort. “Do you think I like searching for words I know perfectly well? Or going into my office and realizing I don’t know what I came in for? You’ve seen the results for yourself!”

“It used to last longer,” Emily whispers. “That’s all I’m saying. If she eats the liver tonight… the piece that’s down there now or the one in the refrigerator… then tomorrow?”

Roddy knows that forty-eight hours would be better, and ninety-six before harvest is optimum, but the Dahl girl is young and the awakening of her own liver should happen quickly, speeding vital nutrients to every part of her body with every beat of her healthy young heart. They know this from the Steinman boy.

Besides, he can’t stand to see his wife suffer.

“Tomorrow night,” he says. “Assuming she eats.”

“Assuming,” Emily says. She’s thinking of the intransigent bitch. The intransigent vegan bitch.

After all these years, Roddy can read her mind. “She’s not like the Black girl. She more or less agreed to eat if I gave her water—”

“More or less,” Em says, and sighs.

Roddy doesn’t seem to hear her. He’s staring off into the distance in a way she worries about more and more. It’s like he’s come unplugged. At last he says, “But I must be careful. She hasn’t asked enough questions. In fact, she’s hardly asked any. Like Chaslow. There’s been no begging and no screaming. Also like Chaslow. It wouldn’t do to slip up.”

“Then don’t,” Emily says. She takes his hand. “I’m depending on you. And it’s Craslow.”

He gives her a smile. “We won’t celebrate July Fourth this year, dear heart, but on the sixth…” His smile widens. “On the sixth we feast.”

3

Roddy returns to the basement at ten o’clock that night, after assisting Emily back up the stairs. Now she’s in bed, where she’ll lie wakeful and in pain for most of the night, managing an hour or two of thin and unsatisfying sleep. If that. He assures himself that her questioning of the sacramental meals is caused not by rational thinking but by her pain, but it still bothers him.

He’s holding the backup slab of liver on a plate, having seen from the video feed that Dahl has continued to refuse the first one. He wishes they had more time, both for her body’s nutrients to awaken and because it’s not good to give in to a prisoner’s demands, but Emily can’t wait for long. Soon she’ll be insisting that he take her to a doctor for pain pills, and those things are death in a bottle.

He sets the plate down and tells Dahl to push out the plastic Ka’Chava go-cup. Dahl does it without asking why. She really is too much like the Chesley woman for his taste. There’s a watchfulness about her that he doesn’t like and will not trust.

From his robe pocket he takes a bottle of Artesia and pours some—not much—into the cup. Then he takes the broom and begins pushing the cup toward her. He has to be careful not to tip it over. The last thing he wants is for this bitter little comedy to turn into a farce. She lifts the flap and reaches out. “Just hand it to me, Professor.”

The surest sign that he’s slipping is that he almost does it. Then he chuckles and says, “I think not.”

When the cup is close enough, she grabs it and chugs it. Two gulps is all it takes.

“Eat your liver and I’ll give you the rest. Refuse and you won’t see me again until tomorrow night.” An empty threat, but Dahl doesn’t know that.

“You promise you’ll give me the rest of the water?”

“Hand to heart. Assuming you don’t vomit. And if you vomit into the Porta-Potty after I’m gone, Em will see it. Then we’ll have trouble.”

“Professor, I’m already in trouble. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She worries him more and more. Scares him a little, too. Ridiculous, but there it is. Instead of answering, he uses the broom to push in the liver. Dahl doesn’t hesitate. She picks it up, sinks her teeth into the raw flesh, and tears off a bite. She chews.

He looks at the tiny droplets of blood on her lower lip with fascination. On July fifth, he will roll those lips in unbleached flour and fry them in a small skillet, perhaps with mushrooms and onions. Lips are fine sources of collagen, and hers will do wonders for his knees and elbows, even his creaky jaw. In the end this worrisome girl is going to be worth the trouble. She is going to donate some of her youth.

She takes another bite, chews, swallows. “Not terrible,” she says. “It’s got a thicker taste than sauteed liver. Dense, somehow. Are you enjoying watching me eat, asshole?”

Roddy doesn’t reply, but the answer is yes.

“I’m not getting out of this, am I? There’s no sense saying I’ll never tell a soul, and all that, is there?”

Roddy is prepared for this. He widens his eyes in surprise. “Of course you will. This is a government research project. There’ll be certain tests and of course you will have to sign a nondisclosure form, but once you’ve done that—”

He’s interrupted by her laughter, which is both humorous and hysterical. “If I believe that, you’ve got a bridge you want to sell me, I suppose. In Brooklyn, gently used. Just give me the fucking water when I finish this.”