Page 22 of The Invisible Roommate

Still, Emory got up close to the writhing organisms, which had translucent white skin. An idea took root. While he was aware jellyfish had no circulatory system to speak of, Emory still couldn’t shake the notion that perhaps he’d been looking too hard at mammalian models for his invisibility project. Maybe the answers he sought about blood were hidden somewhere in the sea.

From disembarking the Susanna until the library closed, every day for the next few months, Emory holed up in the only computer lab in town surrounded by piles of books, despite the complaints about his smell from the sole librarian—a cranky white woman with a wasp’s nest of gray hair on her head and an inability to chew snacks with her mouth closed. Emory paid her no mind because he paid rent; therefore, he was a town citizen, and as a town citizen with a library card who’d hit the limit of check-out materials allowed, he had every right to stink up the computer section whenever he pleased.

Several research rabbit holes led him to translucent icefish in the Antarctic that, over time, lost their hemoglobin genes, giving them an entirely colorless appearance. Studies showed that even red-blooded fish could be exposed to carbon monoxide, effectively killing all their hemoglobin, and still survive.

This information was not immediately useful, however, because the human body needed hemoglobin and hemoglobin had iron and iron is what helped carry oxygen throughout the body. Scientifically imposed anemia was certainly not morally sound in a clinical setting, despite his noble intentions.

He puzzled and brainstormed until crabbing season came to an end.

“See you next year,” Joe said on the last day of November. It was cold and damp, and Emory shivered inside his thin, dew-slicked coat.

“What do you mean?” he asked, shaking out his moist gloves, which were not doing much to keep out the nip in the air.

“Bay regulations don’t allow us to catch ’gain ’til April,” Joe said.

“What am I supposed to do for money until April?” Emory asked desperately, despite Joe already walking away.

Joe didn’t even turn as he shrugged and disappeared into the ramshackle shanty.

12

The new year brought with it new inspiration but no new sources of income.

Once Emory had exhausted his theories about manipulating the blood already in the body, he pivoted toward transfusions and the use of synthetic blood substitutes. Debts mounted as he tried to concoct therapeutics that had over eighty different components that could mirror and, in some ways, even exceed the oxygen-carrying functions of human blood.

But financial restraints clamped down on his creativity, and the frigid winter without work pulled him into a depression so deep some days he barely could get out of bed. His chest felt like it had a tiny hole in it and water was constantly pouring inside, sinking him slowly.

Meals got skipped. Rent payments got skipped, too. Regina came calling a few times, but he pretended he wasn’t home or was too sick to answer.

He holed up in the apartment withering and working away until March went out like a lamb. That’s when Joe came knocking, roaring like a lion, asking why Emory hadn’t been on the Susanna the morning of April first.

Disoriented and vaguely skeletal, he blinked against the daylight that sliced in through the open front door, drew on his shoes, and huffed out to the docks, happy for his routine to restart. As the days passed, he got his coloring, his strength, and his groove back. Still, after he’d settled up with Regina over the back rent—which he sheepishly slipped through her mail slot without so much as a note—he was no better off financially than he was before.

Around mid-August, in the library, Emory settled down at a computer, but his research felt like it had hit a dead end. Absentmindedly, he found himself searching for University College of Medicine & Health Sciences, missing when he had full access to their state-of-the-art equipment but nothing else about that closed-minded institution.

While he was on their site, an event banner caught his attention.

Annual Fall Alumni Gala: RSVP Now!

Emory clicked on it. Pictures from galas past whizzed by in an automatic slideshow. Since he’d only ever attended as a cater waiter as part of his on-campus job, he’d blocked the event out. In a black shirt, black slacks, and a black tie, he’d roved around the room with a tray of coconut shrimp and cocktail napkins. Professors he admired and students he’d shared class with overlooked him, either waving him off or hastily taking a shrimp and returning to their conversations.

As the slideshow continued, a dastardly idea sprouted in Emory’s head.

All the faculty showed up to wine and dine with former pupils. Current students and alumni stood behind a podium on a big stage and shared research presentations. At least a few of his former classmates had to have graduated by then.

What if he revealed his invisibility serum at the gala?

Wouldn’t it be something if he could show up to the party invisible, play some funny pranks on the people who ousted him, and then reappear on stage as proof his inquiries weren’t futile? A gleeful grin broke across his face.

That would show them.

Yes, that would show them quite nicely.

By September, with the gala deadline hanging over him, Emory grew desperate for necessary supplies.

One night, under the saturated light of the moon, he successfully snuck into the Cuss Health Center, where he was prepared to “borrow” what he needed.

As he stealthily ventured through the dark corridors dressed all in black, he assumed he was alone as he jiggled the handle to a supply closet. Then, someone cleared their throat behind him. A blazing light snapped on.