Page 80 of The Invisible Roommate

“Having Anderson see patients here on Iping in my stead was my sister’s idea. You see, my nephew struggled through med school and was one of the unlucky few to not match into a residency program. I took him on as a scribe and physician’s assistant at my practice on the mainland while he figured out his next steps,” Dr. Cuss explained. “Over the last few weeks, the reasons he didn’t match have come to light. He was applying to highly competitive residencies, giving bad interviews, and failing to disclose disciplinary actions including, but not limited to, professionalism issues and academic probation.”

Emory rolled the bitten apple around in his hand. Through the bite mark in the unbruised, bright red skin, he noticed brownish rot bleeding out from its core. Immediately, he opened the milk to wash the nasty taste out of his mouth. “Excuse me for being blunt,” he said once he’d swallowed, “but why are you telling me all this?”

“Apologies. As my patients can tell you, I do tend to prattle.” Dr. Cuss cleared his throat into a fancy-looking handkerchief produced from an inner pocket of his windbreaker. He reminded Emory of Dr. Claude, his first PhD advisor. “Those med school behaviors have reared their ugly heads once again as Anderson has been shirking duties. When we staged a small intervention for him, we turned up to his apartment to find it in disarray. Orange pill bottles everywhere, notes scattered about, dishes piled up for weeks. At the expense of everything else, he’d become obsessed with a project of invisibility.”

From a bag, Dr. Cuss produced one of Emory’s notebooks, the one Anderson had stolen. “I believe this belongs to you.” He passed it through the bars of the cell, though he certainly wasn’t supposed to. The heavy tome shook in Emory’s hands. “Oh, there is one other recovered material I thought you might like back.”

Sergeant Adye reentered carrying a familiar cage, which he set down on his desk. Inside, a fully opaque Marvel Jr.—bigger now—puttered mousily about. Emory’s heart swelled at the sight of his friend. Marvel Jr. had always been more than a test subject.

“I can give you a few more minutes,” said Sergeant Adye. “You have got another person waitin’ for you.”

In the notebook, Emory spotted unfamiliar handwriting. Anderson had attempted to write up keys and make sense of Emory’s hasty scrawl. Some of it was correct. Most of it was way off base. “Did he … did he publish?” Emory asked.

“Anderson? Why, no.” Emory glanced down at the thick pages again. It wasn’t just one foreign hand that had taken to his ledger. There were two handwritings beside his own, each distinct. “I don’t like to speak ill of family, but frankly, Anderson is not intelligent enough to have come up with this. He couldn’t even decipher most of what you’d done himself.”

“Some of these are yours, then?” Emory asked, swiping a thumb over blockier writing. He worried this meant he had a new enemy to worry about. One more established than him.

Dr. Cuss nodded. “After we got Anderson the help he needed, we took to cleaning up his apartment. When I came across this and the little fellow in the cage, I couldn’t help myself. I dove in with a kind of excitement that I haven’t felt in decades. This is some serious work you’ve done here.”

Even though he probably shouldn’t have, he glowed under the praise of a real doctor validating his research. “Thank you.”

The doctor’s expression darkened slightly. “As an old hand in this field, may I offer my two cents?”

Setting the notebook aside, Emory said, “Of course.”

“I’m not sure the world is ready for research like this,” he said, voicing a fear Emory himself had already formulated. “The uses for a physiological invention like this could be life-changing, but perhaps not for the better. I worry that we don’t live in a time where we can ensure this would be used in good faith or with good intentions.”

“I know what you mean.” Emory sighed.

“But a mind like yours, Mr. Griffin,” he continued, “with ingenuity and acumen, is much needed in other medical pursuits. I don’t think you should destroy your findings, but I also don’t think you should publish yet, either. Of course, it is entirely up to you.”

“I worry,” Emory said, “that someone else like Anderson will undercut me no matter what I do.”

“Anderson certainly won’t. You’ll see from his marginalia that he was not on the right track, and given the mind-altering substances he was taking, I doubt he’d have much memory for your complex formulas anyway,” Dr. Cuss said. “I was born on Iping. I left to attend college and medical school and do my residency. When I was established enough to start my own practice, I considered doing it here rather than on the mainland. Mentors strongly veered me toward the mainland with its opportunities for growth and access.”

“How did you end up with your name on the Iping health center, then?” Emory asked.

Dr. Cuss gave a sincere smile, completely devoid of professional falsity. “I paid for it. The practice on the mainland allowed me to do so, and then over the years when I hired other doctors to work with me, I started doing more days as the primary physician out here. At first, it was an excuse to fly my plane during the week, but eventually, it was because I knew how valued I was here, and I could see the difference I was making in people’s lives.”

“That must’ve been nice.” Emory longed for that kind of success and community. He sensed he could find it on Iping, if the residents could look past his misdeeds.

“Extremely. So you see, there may come a time when a researcher with your talents comes to the same or a similar conclusion as you have, and they may very well become renowned and go on to win all the awards you dreamed of,” he said. “Now’s the time to ask yourself, Did you study medicine for the glory or to help people?”

Without thinking, Emory said, “To help people.”

“Good man. Your ethics will guide you to the right decision.” He slowly stood. His knees cracked a bit. “I won’t take up any more of your time. It was a pleasure to meet you, and I do hope you’ll consider staying on Iping.”

“Good meeting you, too,” Emory said. “Though you might be the only person hoping that.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Dr. Cuss said, before bidding him farewell.

Still processing all Dr. Cuss had said and staring down at his returned research, Emory only half registered someone else entering the room. Then, he smelled Gerard’s familiar scent—that alluring mix of grapefruit and aloe. Emory’s heart sang when he looked up and saw the musician, who appeared a little rumpled with drowsiness. Hair a tangled mess of waves. Eyes bloodshot, but not from crying. Gerard rushed toward him, but the sergeant intercepted the attempt. “No touchin’. Them’s the rules.” He pointed at the chair for Gerard to sit.

Before he left, Sergeant Adye reminded them there were cameras in the corners. As if they were going to somehow rip each other’s clothes off with the powers of the mind.

Now there was an idea for Emory’s next experiment …

“Em,” Gerard breathed when they had the room to themselves. “Did you get any sleep in here?” His hazel eyes flicked around the poorly lit space. The ceiling was low, the walls were close, and the toilet was in plain sight. It sure was no five-star hotel.