the woman had struck a spark in the wasteland of Jeanette’s soul, and she’d offered to continue running a private test program of her own with Lawanda, strictly under the radar. She was the one who’d come up with the idea of Lawanda working as a cleaning lady in the Black Labs, and Robert had no complaints of the arrangement.
Neither did Lawanda. Without the morphine, heroin, and methamphetamine cocktail Jeanette provided, she’d be lying somewhere in a welfare bed, dying in agony. With the twice-daily injection, she was still able to work. Robert thought the research might be a way to produce another kind of super-soldier: impervious to pain, oblivious to wounds. Jeanette didn’t really care. Treating Lawanda was one of the few things she did at Threshold that made her actually feel good about herself.
There was no denying that the drugs Jeanette gave her shortened the woman’s life. But they improved its quality, and let her die with dignity. That was more important, though Jeanette knew the FDA would hardly agree.
After a short wait, Angel appeared, herding Lawanda before him. The woman moved at a painfully slow shuffle. She was in her early forties, and looked sixty. The injections could mask the symptoms, but all the drugs in the world couldn’t cure the disease.
Ellie began to moan and keen before Lawanda had even gotten all the way into the room. Interesting. Jeanette knew that the cleaning woman was in very little pain—if any—but Ellie seemed to feel the presence of the cancer itself, not the pain of its victim.
“Did you want me for something, Dr. Campbell? It isn’t time for my shot yet. You aren’t going to stop those, are you?” Lawanda asked anxiously.
“No, Lawanda. Of course not. We just want to try something new in addition to the shot. It won’t hurt, I promise you. I just want you to come s