Lexicon

pant creases. She wasn’t thrilled with the new eyeline.
    “So,” Lee said, “as you might have guessed, you’re going to die soon. In fact, as I understand it, the only reason you’re still here is Yeats has become too busy with a new project to get around to debriefing you yet. When I say
debriefing
, I mean compromising you and getting you to dump out the contents of your brain, in case there’s anything in there that might be useful to us. Now, this is going to happen. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. But my idea, Emily, was to spare Yeats some trouble. You see, my being here is a very big opportunity for me. A test, you might say. And if I’m able to go back to Yeats with the information he wants, well, that would be good.”
    He removed his jacket and began to roll up his shirtsleeves. “Why am I telling you this, since clearly you have no interest in doing what I want? I’ll tell you. It’s because, Emily, I want you to understand how extremely, intensely motivated I am right now.”
    She said, “Uh, Lee? The idea that you can compromise me is laughable.”
    “Oh, I realize you’re not sixteen anymore. I’m not expecting it to be that easy again. In fact, I hear you’ve been working on your defense pretty hard.” He began to unbuckle his belt. “The thing is, Em, I think, deep down, you’re just the same. I think you’re fragile. You subscribed to the idea that the best defense is a good offense, and it’s served you well, sure, but . . . here we are.” He pulled his belt free and began to wind the strap around one hand. “I think once we test that defense, I mean, really put some pressure on it . . . we might see some cracks. I’m pretty confident about that. Because once a person is under severe physical stress, a lot of the higher brain function falls away. The critical thinking. The learned behaviors.” He tapped his forehead. “What am I saying? You know all this. You were in school more recently than me. You know what I’m talking about. And you know I’m not leaving this room without getting what I want. The only question is how hard you’re going to make it.” He let the belt buckle dangle from his fist. “So,” he said, “how are we doing this?”
    • • •
    Two large men came in, wearing white uniforms that Emily recognized from Labs. They approached her with their hands out like claws. By this time, she was in a pretty crazy place, screaming and waving the bucket-knife around, spattered with blood from head to toe. Lee was lying on the floor, quietly pumping out his life through his throat. She swiped at one of the orderlies, shrieking semi-random words, but he caught her wrist and wrapped his arms around her. It felt oddly comforting. They twisted her hands and forced the bucket-knife from her fingers and held her down for what felt like hours. Some other people took Lee away. That was the last time anyone visited her who wasn’t Yeats.
    • • •
    She picked Lee’s blood off her flake by flake. It had dried hard, so this way she was able to clean herself one piece at a time. Maybe
clean
was the wrong word. It was pretty disgusting, but she kept at it, because the alternative was worse. Every flake of Lee that she removed made her feel better.
    Days passed. It felt like days. She became extremely thirsty. After enough of that, she developed a tremble that wouldn’t go away. Her bowels and bladder shut down. She could feel them inside her like stones. She was being tortured, she assumed. Her physical needs were being deliberately left unmet.
    She thought about Eliot. About whether he knew she was here. She figured no, because if he did, he would have shown up. She just had that feeling. Of course, she had left him facedown in a ditch in Broken Hill, and it would have made complete sense if Eliot hated her with a fiery passion. But she had the idea that the kind of relationship she had with him allowed for mistakes, even big ones. And that when this door next opened, it wouldn’t be Yeats but Eliot, and his eyes would be full of reproach but there would also be forgiveness and hope.
    She considered removing her underwear, which were spattered with dark brown Lee spots and made her feel permanently stained. It might even be intimidating to Yeats.
Nothing here but Emily, pal.
But she didn’t do it. She wasn’t that badass. She made herself climb off the bed every now and again and jump on the spot, or at least bounce up and down. So she wasn’t just