Lakewood - Megan Giddings Page 0,60

sent the man to talk to her about Bigfoot. Maybe they were all the people she saw every day. But what was the point?

“We’re doing a loop,” the observer said.

Lena wanted to go back to bed. “Potato chip,” she said.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t eat yet.”

They stopped outside a room full of people watching a movie on a big screen.

“It’s still happening,” the woman said to Lena.

“Should we have someone stop Madison?” a familiar voice asked.

“We can’t interfere,” Dr. Lisa said.

On the screen, a girl was pulling open a safe. Inside was a gun, what looked like a stack of money, and a brown box. Lena recognized her. It was one of the Madisons she had seen on the second floor. Madison didn’t look at the money or the brown box, just reached for the gun. She stood still. It looked too big in her hands. She was wearing pajamas with a large whale pattern on them. Her hair was in two braids. She pointed the gun at the lamp. The curtains.

“She’ll probably just put it back.”

Madison walked out of the room with the gun. The camera lost her for a moment. The screen went dark, cut to many images of the house—inside and outside, from side and overhead angles. Then the back of Madison’s head as she walked down the hallway, the gun visible over her shoulder. The screen cut to that view, following the girl. It was clear she knew how to walk around the house without waking up her parents. There was no sound. Madison pushed open a door.

“This might be too far,” Smith said.

Dr. Lisa made a thoughtful noise, wrote something down.

“This is incredible,” said the observer. She propped Lena against the wall. “You’re okay.”

In the room, a woman slept on her side, wearing a sleeping mask. A man, probably the girl’s father, slept on his back, arms folded over his chest. It looked as if the woman was talking in her sleep. Madison kept the gun pointed at the bed. She walked to its edge, pointed it unsteadily at her mother. She squeezed the trigger once but didn’t seem to get enough force behind it. Tried again, shooting her mother in the head. There was a kick. She fell back a little, hitting her arm on the nightstand. Madison’s father sat up. He seemed confused. Reached out as if still in dreams, his mouth wide open as if screaming or yawning. Madison shot him too. A few people in the room gasped. Most were writing, scratching out furious notes.

Lena’s mouth let out a sound. The rest she kept tamped down, though keeping all her emotions in check felt like holding in a sneeze. She would not cry. She would not put her hand over her mouth. She would not vomit, though rage and disgust were building in her throat.

Madison said something. She wiped her face, but she wasn’t crying. There was spray on it. Madison put the gun on the foot of the bed and walked out.

“That was completely unnecessary,” Smith said.

“We needed to know if it worked.” Dr. Lisa sounded bored. Most of the observers were looking at the screen, but a few were watching the two of them and writing notes. Dr. Lisa said, “We needed to see a full range of results from that study.”

Smith stood up. Leaving behind his clipboard, he walked over to Lena and the observer. Lena opened her mouth. Shut it. Let her eyes focus on the wall behind him. “Broccoli,” she said.

Smith put a hand on her cheek, peered into her eyes. She stayed focused on the wall, ignoring his gray eyes, the pale eyebrows.

“Why do you have her here?”

“She’s walking.”

“I.” Smith sounded annoyed. “Come on, you know you shouldn’t have brought her here.”

“She’s not going to remember anything.” The woman’s voice faltered. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s. Let’s just take her back to bed.”

They walked Lena through the hallways. People were talking loudly and with a lot of excitement about what had happened. It was like the end of a sporting event. People recounted the best moments—when the subject pulled the gun from the safe, when the subject shot her mother. No hesitation. Great results.

Smith said in a low tone that Lena was making excellent progress if she was already walking. She might be one hundred percent fine. He sounded relieved.

“Are you going to tell her?” the observer asked.

“She probably saw that you had this one with you,” Smith said. “She’s going to be pissed. It’s our first round