Jim began studying the file again, searching it for all the things that should have been there.
The absences from school.
The upset stomachs after lunch.
The skinned knees from inevitable falls.
The sore throats and colds that no child escapes.
None of it was there.
Jim went over the report yet again, searching for anything he might have missed. Finally, he closed the folder and faced his wife. “Lucy, did you notice anything odd about Randy’s file?”
She looked at him pensively. “Odd? How do you mean?”
“According to this, Randy’s never been sick a day in his life, never had a cavity in his mouth, never even so much as skinned his knee.”
“So?”
Jim frowned. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard of such a thing before.” He reopened the report and began quoting it to Lucy. All of it was clear—all except for a small notation at the bottom of the first page:
CHILD #0263
“What’s this mean? Do they assign each of the kids a number now?”
Lucy shook her head. “It’s a survey code. I wondered about it, too, so I called the school nurse this morning. CHILD stands for Children’s Health Institute for Latent Diseases, and oh-two-six-three was the number assigned to Randy.”
“Assigned to him for what?” Jim asked.
“Some sort of survey. Miss Oliphant said they’ve been tracking Randy for a long time.”
“Tracking him? You mean watching him?”
“Not exactly. Every few months the school forwards Randy’s health records to the Institute, that’s all.”
“How many of the kids are they tracking?”
Lucy frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Are they tracking all the kids at the school? All the ones in Randy’s class?”
“I don’t know,” Lucy said. She picked up the file and looked at the notation once again, trying to remember just what Annie Oliphant had told her about the survey. Had she even asked how many of Randy’s schoolmates were involved? She couldn’t remember. She went to the phone and began dialing.
“Lucy, it’s after midnight,” Jim reminded her.
“But it might be important.” Lucy waved him silent and turned her attention to the phone. “Miss Oliphant? It’s Lucy Corliss. I hate to bother you so late, but I keep wondering about this survey Randy was involved in. Was his whole class being studied?”
She listened for a moment, asked a few more questions, then thanked the nurse again, and hung up.
“Well?” Jim asked.
“It’s strange,” Lucy said. “She told me she doesn’t know anything about the survey. There are several children from Eastbury involved, and Randy’s the oldest Every month she sends copies of the children’s records to Boston, to the CHILD headquarters. They supply the envelopes and the postage, but they’ve never told her what the survey is about or what the results are.”
“But who authorized the survey?” Jim asked. “I mean, don’t you have to give your permission for Randy’s records to be sent out?”
“I don’t know,” Lucy replied. “I suppose I might have signed some kind of consent form somewhere along the line. You know how it is—kids bring home so many forms, and they never give them to you until breakfast the day they’re due.”
“Actually,” Jim commented, his voice not unkind, “I don’t know about such things. I guess there’s a lot I don’t know much about.”
His eyes had taken on a look of such loneliness that Lucy went to him and slipped her arms around him, “Well, don’t start worrying about all that now,” she told him. “I can guarantee you that if you had been around, you wouldn’t have read all the forms either.”
Jim grinned at her. “You mean you’d have forgiven me for being irresponsible?” Lucy drew away from him, and Jim wished he’d left the mild taunt unsaid. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, but Lucy was already studying Randy’s medical file again.
“Miss Oliphant said something else. She said that all the subjects of the survey have one thing in common: All their files read like Randy’s. It seems they’re all in perfect health and always have been.”
Now Jim stared at her.
“All of them?” he said.
Lucy nodded.
“But—but how can that be?”
“What do you mean?”
“How long has the survey been going on?”
“At least since they started school.”
“And all the kids they’re surveying have perfect health?”
“That’s what Annie Oliphant said.” What was he getting at?
“Lucy, doesn’t it strike you as odd that this survey has been going on for some time—we don’t really know how long—and all its subjects have perfect health? I mean, it seems to me that it would be reasonable if when Randy was, say, ten years old,