The boy looked up at her with those sunken, sun deprived eyes of his. "Will you come back tomorrow?" A desperate, pleading quality hung to the question. It was almost repulsive in its neediness.

How starved for attention must he be to want daily visits from his doctor?

The way his fingers wriggled on the arm of the chair suggested he might reach for her arm, cling to her, forcing her to stay a moment longer, if only she moved a few steps closer.

"Of course." Her words snapped out automatically. Of course she'd be back. They wanted her to look in on him every day. But he wasn't asking about the schedule. He needed reassurance. She forced her mouth to soften into a smile and added, "Sweetie, I'll come by tomorrow and every other day, if you want."

"I'd like that," he said, gratitude spilling sloppily out from his sudden grin. "You're so much nicer than my other doctors."

Barbara moved in closer and petted him on the head the way she had seen other people do to children and dogs that they cared about. With her hand placed against the nape of his neck, delicately above the nodule of old scar tissue, she reminded him to do his homework trying to use the same tone of voice her mother used to use when she was young, which was somehow supposed to convey discipline and affection. 

The facility had him on some ridiculous home-school program. As if it mattered whether he kept up his grades or not. It only dangled false hope that one day he might go home and start back up at school like a normal boy.

Barbara said goodbye and told him again that she'd be back tomorrow. She had to wait at the door for an awkward few seconds while the guard recognized she was ready leave and buzzed her out.

The containment cell was a lot laxer than Amy's. Just a single door with the lock controlled at the guard station in the hall. Hardly any security at all, Barbara noted.

That evil troll doll, Marjorie Proulx, was waiting for her as she came out.

"So?" The ancient scientist appeared to leap up from her seat but it was only the illusion caused by her swift movement and her extreme lack of height.

"So," Barbara answered. She wasn't in the mood for guessing games or mind reading. She strode down the hallway forcing Proulx to jog to keep up on her short, little legs.

"How is he?" the woman asked.

"Perfectly healthy. Just like he was yesterday."

"I mean, do you think there's a chance. Might he grow into his full potential, as they say?"

"Do you mean like becoming president?"

"No. Do not joke. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Will he become a wolf like the other one?"

Barbara stopped and faced Proulx, feeling the need to make herself fully understood. "How the hell should I know? He's a normal thirteen year-old boy. If you people hadn't told me about his genetics, I would never have made the link to the girl."

The little woman looked up, smiling stupidly as though being friendly would wheedle out the information she wanted. "But you spent a long time with Amy Westgate. Did you not? Surely you picked up on some cues that made her different from a normal person."

"Yes, there were differences with her physiology before and after the transformations. But otherwise, she was unremarkable. Except for the emotional trauma of being a sentient guinea pig, which—if you were wondering—you've managed to instill into the boy as well. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have better ways to spend my time than standing here talking to you."

Marjorie's dimwitted smile soured and her face took on more of the appearance of a pitbull bearing its yellow, crooked teeth. "I won't be talked down to by the likes of you. You are no more special than the janitor. Do you understand? We could change you out like that." Her fingers made a sound like a dry twig cracking when she snapped them under Barbara's nose. "It's the work that me and Pierre are doing that matters. You just take blood samples and bandage skinned knees. I have ruined better careers than yours. You young things flit about and think you're something special. But you're not. I allow my Pierre his little dalliances but I will not take any shit. Am I clear?"

The shrill cry of Proulx's voice stopped and the silence brought peace to Barbara's ears but left her mind on edge. The raw aggression of the old woman demanded a push back but at the same time her words lingered like a sickening smell. Good God, dalliances! Is that what she thought? It made Barbara want to wretch.

Instead of continuing the argument, she turned and walked away. Proulx made a hmph noise tosignal her triumph. It almost drew Barbara back but she kept going. The woman was no more important than a gnat buzzing in her ear.

If all went as planned, she would be dead in a couple of days, Barbara reminded herself. They would all be dead and Barbara would be long gone.

So long as Palmer wasn't a problem.

The little weasel was becoming obstinate. He actually refused to come out to Montana like she'd ordered. He claimed to be stuck with some business of Walt's. This better not be the start of a trend.  She didn't want to have to go to Connecticut but he was getting bold without her close by to yank back on his chain. He had better forget his misgivings and bring her the things she asked for.

"Are you crazy," he had said. 

He whined across the phone so loudly she wondered if other people might have heard him. There weren't many people around but there were enough that one might catch his complaints if he insisted on yelling.

She was standing on a street corner in town while the lab's administrator ended a supply run with a beer in the local tavern. Barbara had tagged along saying she needed to go shopping to get her through the first few days before her things arrived. In the drug store, she had bought some privacy by getting a ridiculous assortment of woman's hygiene products. Like a typical man, her chaperon was too embarrassed to stick around, giving her the opportunity to pick up a disposable phone to call Palmer.

He continued to complain repeating himself.  "Are you insane?  I work for a pharmaceutical company not Saddam Hussain. How the hell do expect me to get nerve gas?"

"No, you work for Walt M. Jorgenson. You'll figure it out," she told him. "I need something that will take out the entire facility. Dumping poison in the air circulators is the easiest way. Look, do this one last thing and you won't have to worry about me any longer. I'll free you from your debt." Even as she said it, she worried it was too conciliatory. Rodents like Palmer only understood fear.

"Are you leaving the country? Is that what the passports are for?"

"Yes. But I won't leave if I can't get the boy out of The Ranch."

Palmer sighed. "What's so special about him? What do you care about him?"

Barbara had so far only told him that the government was holding him, not why. Somehow Fish and Wildlife had kept his existence secret from Walt and SBI, Barbara wasn't about to be the one to inform them. "This is what's important," she told Palmer. "They're going to euthanize him." It was a lie, but one a sympathetic sap like Palmer would eat up. "Do you really want to be responsible for the death of a child? Or should I say, the death of two children. Because if you don't help me, I'll fly out there and reduce the number of mouths you have to feed, as I promised a long time ago."

He moaned at the threat. Barbara couldn't tell if it was an expression of inward pain or if it was like a groan at an old joke heard once too often. "Okay. Okay. I'll figure something out. Give me a few days."

"You have twenty-four hours." She hung up before he could bargain for more time.

The clock was ticking now. If he didn't screw things up, she and the boy would be in Canada before anyone knew what was happening.