The Serophim Breach (The Serophim Breach Series) (2 page)

Brandon tried to gauge the ages of the other patients in the room, wondering if he was actually the youngest person to show up for the clinical trial. Someone who looked to be about his age sat across the room, hunched over his iPod; clad in a flannel shirt and cutoff khakis, he might have been in his early twenties. Everyone else looked older. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the faux leather cushion sticky against the backs of his legs.

Relax,
he thought.
Being nervous is the quickest way to get into trouble.
He turned his attention to the room itself, which only added to the claustrophobic feeling of gloominess settling on his skin like fog. The white walls had a slight green tinge to them, and below the chair rail, the textured wallpaper was beginning to curl at the edges. There were only two doors in the room: the front door, flanked by two small windows that looked out onto the parking lot, and a second door marked “Authorized Personnel Only: Please Turn Off Cell Phones.” He wasn’t sure where it led, since no one had come in or out of it yet. A television in the corner mumbled quietly about Argo Pharmaceuticals and their numerous medical breakthroughs over the past five years. Smiling faces, happy families, optimistic-looking cancer patients flashed onscreen; it was an almost comical backdrop to the mood that hung heavily in the air.

Two weeks earlier, he had heard an advertisement for the clinical study on the radio while driving to a party with his brother, Paul, and a few friends.

Do you suffer from severe depression and the physical pain associated with depression? Argo Pharmaceuticals is conducting a clinical trial for a new depression medication and drug delivery method, and you may be eligible to participate. You may be eligible for up to $4,500 in compensation, as well as all treatment and checkups free of charge. Call 1-800-CBPHARMA for more information.

They had all commented on the possibility of an easy $4,500; Brandon had quietly taken the number down and called the next day.

Technically, he wasn’t depressed. He was, however, in over his head with student loans and credit cards. Two months had passed since his graduation from college, and only four months remained before the first of his significant loan payments would come due. There was no chance of getting help from his father; the farm was struggling to stay afloat, as usual. And he hadn’t been nearly as successful finding a real job as he had expected. It seemed no one was impressed by his agricultural chemistry degree; one interviewer actually told him, “A bachelor’s degree is the new high school diploma. Everyone has one.” He had even exhausted his resources through his college fraternity to no avail. So while he had hoped to stay on the mainland after graduation, he moved home to Oahu instead and started working for his father.

The pay was nothing near what he had planned on making when he was an honor student at Purdue. Balancing a heavy academic load and a decent social life had only left room for a part-time job at a sandwich shop, and he hadn’t managed to save up more than a few hundred dollars. Any concern he felt about his ever-increasing debt had been shrugged off with the thought of instantaneous employment after graduation by a superfarm on the mainland, which had proven to be not-so-instantaneous. His dad contributed to his savings account when he could and paid him a salary for his work on their small farm, but $4,500 would go a long way toward getting him through the end of the year. He was still sending out resumes to companies on the mainland, telling himself that he would find employment before too long. Until then, he just needed a little cushion, and it seemed that an opportunity had presented itself.

Then again, there was always the possibility he was actually depressed. A brief Internet search had turned up statistics like “One in four adults suffer from depression,” along with checklists and suggestions from pharmaceutical companies on how to seek treatment. All in all, the condition seemed pretty common, and he certainly exhibited several of the symptoms, most notably anxiety. The family doctor had given him the referral he needed, so he signed up for the study after giving what he considered a convincing performance on the phone to a screener.

The clinic that Argo rented was located on the windy side of the island, far enough away from his home that he felt comfortable leaving his family out of the loop. Knowing he was acting as a human guinea pig would only make his father feel guilty. So he had borrowed the truck under the pretense of a date, and made the drive across the island.

Now, sitting in the waiting room, he wondered if he really had any shot in hell of fooling the researchers. Just as he finished the last of his paperwork, the front door opened, and in walked Boomer, one of Paul’s friends who had heard the advertisement as well. He caught Brandon’s eye, giving him a quick look and then moving on. He shuffled into the waiting room and headed for a seat on the opposite wall. Inwardly, Brandon felt a twinge of irritation at Boomer’s arrival. Somehow it seemed to make his chances of getting into the study less likely. He assumed the look had meant they should avoid acknowledging one another, and he agreed, so he stood casually and returned his clipboard to the young woman behind the desk at the front of the room.

“Great, thanks,” she said, taking it from him. “Someone will be right out to take you back for a briefing.”

Brandon nodded. He was heading back to his chair and pointedly ignoring Boomer when the “Authorized Personnel” door swung open, and a middle-aged man stepped through. He had shaggy gray hair and huge, thick, tortoise-shell glasses resting on the bridge of his substantial nose. As the man surveyed the room, Brandon had the strange feeling he was being categorized. After noisily clearing his throat, the man introduced himself to everyone as Dr. Marvin Rhodes.

“I’m going to be taking you back one at a time to get briefed and sign some paperwork; after that we’ll be administering the first dose.” Glancing down at his clipboard, he said, “Brandon Kavida?” Brandon stood and waved an awkward hello as he headed for the “Authorized Personnel” door where Dr. Rhodes waited for him.

“Hello, Brandon,” said the doctor. “Thanks for coming in today.”

Brandon smiled and nodded, trying not to stare at the right side of Dr. Rhodes’s face. His right earlobe looked as if it had been torn off and healed badly; the jagged scar running along the edge of his ear and a few inches down his jawline was an angry, swollen purple.

Dr. Rhodes smiled thinly as he shut the door behind them and led the way down the hall.

“Still healing up,” he said. “I had a small accident a few months ago.” He looked over his shoulder at Brandon, who walked a step behind.

“Oh. That sucks,” Brandon replied. The doctor shrugged and led him down a narrow, badly lit corridor.

“Here we go,” he said, opening an unmarked door. Brandon stepped into the tiny room and hoisted himself onto the exam table.

From the doorway, Dr. Rhodes said, “All right, if you’ll just wait here, I’ll send Andrea along to talk to you and take some samples.” He shut the door before Brandon had a chance to respond in any way.

He found himself inexplicably disappointed by the state of the exam room. A rolling chair sat in the middle of the room, and behind it, the wall was lined with the countertop, sink, and cabinets he associated with a standard doctor’s office. An old television was mounted to the wall directly across from him. To his right, gossip rags were strewn across a small end table, along with a tissue box and a few remote controls. He considered trying to turn the TV on, then cocked his head to the side and read a few of the tabloid headlines instead. Only a few minutes passed before he heard a sharp knock at the door; a nurse entered, pushing a metal cart laid out with two rows of gleaming instruments and cotton swabs. She didn’t look much older than him, with her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and a chubby face that implied more fast food than home cooking in her life.

“Hi, Brandon,” she said cheerfully, letting the door swing closed behind her. He caught a glimpse of one of the other patients from the waiting room following Dr. Rhodes down the hall just before the door clicked shut. The nurse he assumed was Andrea headed for the TV and opened one of the cabinet doors on the stand to reveal a DVD player.

“I’m going to put in this DVD for you to watch while I take a few samples, okay?” she said. Brandon bristled slightly at her tone.
Any second now she’s going to offer me a SpongeBob Band-Aid and a lollipop
, he thought. In an effort to maintain appearances, he nodded slowly, doing his best to look listless.

“So, your chart says you reported some anxiety, irritability, and some fatigue to your family practitioner,” she said as she wheeled the cart toward him.

“Yeah, and I have trouble concentrating. I’m tired all the time. Lots of aches too. I just don’t feel like doing anything,” he mumbled. In the back of his mind, he hoped he wasn’t overdoing it.

“Well, those are all classic symptoms of depression,” she said briskly. “Have you ever been treated for depression before?” She was making notes on her clipboard as they spoke.

Brandon shook his head. “No. No, I guess I just thought I’d snap out of it.”

“Well, I’m glad you decided to try some treatment,” she replied, picking up the DVD remote from the end table next to him. The television came on with a friendly beep, and Brandon saw the Argo Pharmaceuticals logo spinning slowly over a DVD menu.

“I’m going to have you watch this brief introduction to the project. You okay with needles?” she asked.

He shrugged.
No one’s really okay with needles
, he wanted to say, but instead, he remarked, “I guess so.”

The nurse smiled again. “Good. I have to take a blood sample first,” she said, and set about getting things ready.

Brandon turned his attention to the video as it played. A friendly-faced woman appeared on the screen and greeted him, then quickly launched into an explanation of Argo and the current clinical trial. He found that he understood very little. The screen changed to show researchers bent over samples, charts demonstrating the effect of a drug called Serophim, and computer-animated graphics of a bloodstream—all while the friendly-faced woman talked about polymer particles and “a revolutionary new drug delivery method.”

The nurse inserted the needle, and he flinched, sucking in air. She murmured an apology as she collected three test-tube-size samples of his blood. The friendly-faced woman on the screen was explaining the double-blind research method when the nurse asked him to open his mouth so she could swab his cheeks. By the time the two women were done with him, he was ready to go home.

“So,” the nurse said as she labeled her samples, “I’m going to take you to the back, and they’ll give you the first dose. Like the DVD said, you have to come back in thirty days for your second dose, and report any side effects you experience. Especially anything personality-related, okay?”

Brandon frowned. “Isn’t an antidepressant supposed to affect my personality?”

She chuckled. “Well, like the DVD said, if you have any negative mood swings or things like that.” Then she opened the door and motioned for him to follow.

They walked farther down the hall to a door marked “LAB.” Once inside, Andrea left him with a youngish man in a white coat sitting on a tall, rolling chair in the center of the room. A row of small nasal spray canisters sat on the counter next to him, perfectly white except for a label too small for Brandon to read.

Rather than introducing himself, the researcher handed Brandon several forms to sign, saying, “Okay, this drug is administered via a nasal spray. Have you ever done this before?”

Brandon told him he had not, and the researcher gave him the first helpful explanation he had received.

“First I’m going to have you blow your nose.”

He obliged, feeling self-conscious and childish as he took a tissue from the box the lab tech offered.

“Okay, now take this,” the young man said, handing Brandon one of the bottles. “Tilt your head forward and plug up your right nostril. Now start breathing in, and squirt one spray in your left nostril.”

Brandon did as he was told, bracing himself in anticipation of the new sensation. He sprayed the drug, flinching as the liquid shot up his nostril. Whatever was in it was freezing cold and felt like alcohol evaporating on his skin.

“Both nostrils,” the young man reminded him.

He repeated the process with his right nostril and tossed the canister into the bin the young man held out. A twinge of nerves ran through him when he saw the word BIOHAZARD in small red letters on its side, but then he reminded himself that was standard on most waste receptacles at a doctor’s office.

Ten minutes later, Brandon walked out of the clinic into the waning afternoon light. He took a deep breath of the soft Hawaiian air, catching a whiff of plumeria and the gritty scent of wet soil from the hills behind him. He smiled. While he had loved being on the mainland for college and intended to return once he got a job, he would always love the way the air smelled at home.

He plopped down into the driver’s seat of the truck and let out a long breath. He had made it through the first steps of the trial, and no one seemed to suspect him in the slightest. A cheerful girl in blue scrubs and a white lab coat in the waiting room had assured him that his $4,500 would be paid out in halves, one at each checkup. He rubbed his nose as he started up the truck. The unpleasant sensation had only lasted a second after he had sprayed the drug, and then he had been asked a few questions and turned loose.

He shrugged to himself as he pulled out of the parking lot and thought,
“That was easy
.”

~

Honolulu, Hawaii—October 16

It had taken Miles three hours of panhandling in Waikiki to gather enough money for his next hit. Three hours standing beneath the giant banyan tree near the entrance of the International Market Place, asking tourists for bus fare to meet his family at Waimea Bay. He was always more successful with those tourists who were leaving, newly hatched pearl jewelry in hand, their eyes glazed over with the fever of money spending. The outrageous prices they paid for imitation ukuleles and sarongs made it that much easier for them to dole out their last bits of cash to a young father who had stupidly locked his wallet in his hotel room.