They Killed Me in the Lab, So I Woke Up Early novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Friendly Room

Intake day: pastries, a warm director and a technician who counts under his breath at the door. He speaks in the voice that counted her down.

On Thursday morning Maren stood outside the Quillan Institute and made herself walk through the glass doors.

Her legs did not want to.

The lobby smelled of coffee and warm sugar.

A long table by the windows held pastries on paper doilies and a sign in cheerful handwriting: Take two, you're nervous.

Maren remembered that sign.

In the first life she had taken two and eaten both.

"You must be Maren." The receptionist smiled and slid a visitor badge across the desk. "Dr. Quillan is so excited to meet you."

"Thank you."

"Free parking validation. Don't let me forget."

Maren clipped on the badge with a hand that was almost steady.

Over the receptionist's shoulder she could see the elevators.

Beside the call button was a small black keycard reader, and under it a brass plate with two letters: B2.

Her stomach turned over once and stayed down.

"There she is!"

Dr. Hester Quillan came across the lobby in a soft grey cardigan, reading glasses swinging on a cord.

She was fifty-four, silver-haired and round-cheeked, and she greeted every person she passed by name.

She took Maren's gloved right hand in both of hers.

"Oh, thank goodness. Your brother talks about you like you hung the moon. I'm Hester, please, not Doctor, everyone here says Hester."

"Maren."

"And you wear gloves. I did hear that. Eczema?"

"Yes," Maren said. "How did you hear that?"

"Owen, I'd think. Or the note on your hospice file." Hester waved a hand. "I'm terrible at remembering where I learn things. My staff tease me about it."

Owen had not known about any hospice file.

Maren noted it and moved on, because she was busy keeping her face still.

"Let me show you around," Hester said, tucking Maren's arm through her own.

The glove between them was the only thing keeping Maren's mind her own.

They passed a glass-walled kitchen where a man was burning toast.

Hester called through the door, "It's the smoke alarm's turn to win again."

Somebody laughed.

"We're a small family here," Hester said. "I know everyone's tea order. Do you drink tea?"

"Black. No sugar."

"Ah, a woman who means it." Hester took a pen from her cardigan pocket and wrote on the back of her hand. "I'll remember."

It was such an ordinary thing to do.

Maren felt her throat tighten anyway.

The woman writing on the back of her hand had held Maren's fingers through the worst hour of her life.

"Now, a few easy questions," Hester said, still smiling. "Ever broken a bone? Had stitches? Do you faint at the sight of blood?"

"Two stitches, once. A cut on my chin."

"Did it hurt?"

"Not as much as I expected."

"Interesting." Hester wrote that on her other hand, and her eyes were bright. "Not many people say that."

They reached the third floor.

The corridor was carpeted and quiet, with soft lamps along the wall.

Each door had a name tag in a little brass frame: Quiet Room 1, Quiet Room 2, Quiet Room 3.

She had learned every one of those doors in the first life.

Hester stopped at the last one and checked her watch.

"My senior technician will take your intake. He's the best I have, truly, an absolute perfectionist. Jonah?"

The door was closed.

On the other side of it a man's voice murmured, low and steady.

Maren caught only fragments through the wood. Five. Four. Three.

Then the handle turned.

A tall man stood in the doorway in a grey Institute lanyard and a rumpled shirt.

He was in his early thirties, with short dark hair and a tired, careful face.

A pale scar crossed the knuckles of his left hand where it held the door.

Maren had never seen his face.

In the first life every technician below the third floor had worn a cap and a mask.

"Maren, this is Jonah Pell," Hester said. "Jonah, Maren Teague. She's going to be a favorite, I can tell."

The man looked at Maren.

For a moment he did not seem to be breathing.

Then he stepped aside to let her in.

"Ms. Teague," he said. "Welcome. Come in."

Maren stood very still in the doorway.

It was the voice from the table.

It was the man who had counted her down.

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