the place up.”
Robert grinned and saluted her from across the room, a faux-macho gesture he’d picked up from some movie or other. Jeanette grimaced—she’d always particularly detested it. But Robert didn’t notice. He’d already gotten what he wanted.
After he left, she rummaged through her paper files until she found the one she was looking for: the intake report on Ellie Borden, the sole survivor of the first run of trials. The black hooker’d had the lowest body weight of any of the test subjects, and so the dose she’d gotten in the cells had been proportionately higher.
Was that the reason she’d survived? Would a small dose of T-Stroke kill, but a large one liberate the mind from its fetters?
We’re going to get a chance to find out, aren’t we? Jeanette thought with grim humor. Her headache was worse than it had been all day. See? You’re going to do someone else down. And it doesn’t hurt at all, does it?

They had to let her go. God had given her a second chance, and Ellie Borden didn’t intend to waste it.
She knew she was in some kind of trouble. Her head was clear for the first time in many, many months, the disease wasn’t hanging over her head like a flaming sword, and she knew that wherever this place was, she was not in the hands of the police.
Everyone she’d met here had treated her with distant kindness. A little while after she’d woken up whole and well, alone in a