“If you could do that, you would have already. And that golden boy or girl would be standing on the stage with you.”
“Fine. Go without the serum, then,” Jake said evenly.
As far as Jericho knew, Marlowe’s little blue miracle powered the machinery of his body. It kept his heart beating, his lungs breathing, his blood pumping. And it kept his mind from devolving into madness. Marlowe was bluffing. Had to be.
Jericho was scared, but he refused to let Marlowe win. “All right. Maybe I will.”
“I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Why not? What will happen if I do?”
Marlowe didn’t respond.
“I deserve an answer,” Jericho said, raising his voice. He banged his fist on the table, toppling some of the buildings on Marlowe’s artfully arranged Future of America model.
“Careful,” Marlowe cautioned, and Jericho wasn’t sure if he meant the model or Jericho himself.
“I honestly don’t know what will happen. Because you’re the only one who’s come this far. Just you.” Once more, Marlowe leaned forward, his face grimly determined. “Jericho, let me help you. You’ll get your girl. You can have everything you want. Together, we will be part of greatness.”
Just like on that spring morning ten years before, Jericho could feel hope’s snare around his ankle. If he submitted to Marlowe’s grand plan, became part of his experiment, could he have a better chance at happiness? Would he be considered not a freak but a golden son—a prototype for the new, exceptional American? Could he have everything he wanted?
Could he have Evie?
Choices.
Already Marlowe had restored order to the toppled model, everything in its place.
“I’ll think about it,” Jericho said, enjoying the irritation flitting across Marlowe’s face. The great Jake Marlowe couldn’t control everything, after all.
“As you wish,” Marlowe said.
He went to his left pocket, fished out the small vial there, and placed it in Jericho’s palm.
Jericho stared at it, confused. “Where are the others?”
“You earn them. That is one month’s supply. I’m giving you thirty days to make up your mind. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Isaiah!” Memphis shouted. “Did you do this?”
He showed Isaiah his defaced poetry book.
Eyes wide, Isaiah nodded.
Three of the pages were covered in disturbing drawings. Isaiah’s pencil had gouged the paper.
“You’re acting like you’re two instead of ten,” Memphis griped. “I know you’re mad at the whole world right now, Isaiah, but you can’t be doing this. You can’t ruin a man’s personal property.”
“I didn’t mean to. I was asleep,” Isaiah protested.
Memphis didn’t know whether to believe Isaiah or not. The way he’d acted lately, he could’ve done it out of spite. Now the poem he’d worked so hard on was a shambles. Memphis wasn’t even sure he could recover any of it.
“I was having another nightmare,” Isaiah said. “Those are the monsters in the subways.”
“Monsters. In the subways.” Memphis’s laugh was short and bitter. “They pay full fare?”
“I saw them!” Isaiah yelled. “She made them. They’re down there. They’re hungry.”
“Isaiah! I swear.” Memphis threw his hands in the air and let them fall to his sides again. He held up the book. “You owe me.”