Prodigal Formula - Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

         Dr. Ellis sat at his desk, palms together, planted against his chin and stared in thought at the blank eyes of his test subject across the room.
         Edward Young, was found fifteen years ago, as a newborn, in a dumpster seventy-five miles from the lab in which he now sat.  In that time, he had been deemed a ward of the state, diagnosed with mental retardation and cerebral palsy, passed through four different care facilities and through corporate influence, had been received with open arms by Dr. Ellis and the BioCorp family.  For six months, he had been the subject of over 300 tests and 70 injections and while Ellis couldn’t care less about the empty eyes that tracked across his desk, the walls and most often, the mice in the cages at the far end of the room, he was engrossed with the twisted arms and legs that bound his test subject to a wheelchair.
         The door to the office swung wide and an orderly in his late-twenties strode into the room, pushing a cart in front of him with a myriad of supplies.  He leaned forward slightly to clear the door and enter the room and the bottom edges of a non-descript tattoo poked out from under the short blue sleeves of his medical scrubs.
         “Harley,” Ellis said shortly.
         “What’s up, Doc?”
         In six months, Harley had greeted Ellis in this fashion and each time he did, it grated a little more harshly on Ellis’ nerves.  Ellis imagined a lemon being grated down past the rind to the pulp.
         “He needs changing,” Ellis gestured to his test subject and stood from his chair, folding his arms across his chest.
         “You got it,” Harley said.  Watch closely, Doc.  God knows what I might be doing to your precious guinea pig while I’m knuckle deep in human shit, he thought to himself.
         Harley pushed the cart over to Edward and locked the wheels in place with his foot before picking Edward up under the arms and laying him on top of the cart.  Harley stood at five feet, six inches tall, but his size and his medical scrubs deceptively hid his impressive physique.  He deftly handled the fifteen-year-old’s weight with the same ease one would use in flipping a couch cushion.
         “How we doing today, Ward?” Harley asked playfully.  He had taken to calling him Ward after BioCorp had refused to provide the child’s real name and simply told him that he would be taking care of a ward of the court.  It was as good a name as any for Harley, but he enjoyed the irritating quality it had to his betters.
         Though he was given no answer, Harley continued making idle chatter with Edward throughout the changing process and – as always – he made sure to turn the changing station to give Dr. Ellis a full view of the show.
         “Gotta love those hospital diets, eh Doc?” Harley asked as he dropped the diaper into the garbage bin attached to the cart.
         Ellis took up a clipboard and headed for the door.
         “You still want the PT?” Harley asked as Ellis was opened the door to exit.
         “Yes,” Ellis answered curtly.  “And I hope it goes without saying that the work in here is worth more than you are.  Try not to disturb anything.”
         “Wouldn’t dream of it, Doc,” Harley replied as the door swung shut.
         Asshole.
         Harley began the physical therapy regimen on “Ward” and continued his chatter.
         “Tell me you don’t get sick of that guy.”
         Despite the advice to never get too emotionally attached to a patient, Harley had developed a kinship and sympathy for the boy.  He held his personal life and attachments separate from his professional life, but the high point of his day were his usual trips to Ellis’ lab.  Except for the days that Kelly – the intern from Human Resources – made her rounds through this wing with notices and forms to sign.
         “Brother, those legs start at the ground and go all the way to heaven.”
         Harley stopped in the middle of a hamstring stretch and shook his head at the boy.
         “You got a bad rap, kid.  You should be looking at girls and playing baseball, not stuck in a wheelchair with no one to talk to but that pain in the ass doctor.  Well, if you talked, anyway.”
         Harley hoisted the boy back into his wheelchair and settled his limbs back into place.
         “But you listen real good.  I just hope it isn’t wasted on those mice or the doc-”
         Harley nearly jumped back as the boy’s hand locked on to his wrist.  Harley stared wide-eyed as the boy’s other hand slowly rose from his lap in what looked like a gunman’s salute – but the index finger was shooting straight out of his balled-up fist and the thumb was cocked over it as if keeping it in place.  The hand rose unsteadily until it was beside Harley’s head.
         “Gone,” the boy muttered crudely.
         Harley, too dumbfounded to do anything for a moment slowly turned his head to look at the boy’s fist and follow the pointed finger to the far side of the wall that held the mice.  Harley returned his gaze to the boy and sat riveted.
         “What’s gone, kid?”
         “Gone,” he repeated and fully extended his arm to point.
         Harley turned half-around in his squat and beheld the cages of mice on the far side.
         “The mice are still there, buddy.  They’re right th-”
         Harley stopped in mid-sentence and realized that gone was the right word.  Each cage held one laboratory rat, save for the one on the end that had a crude tower built out of a running wheel, a food dish and a small pile of shavings.  The one that appeared to have been opened from the inside.  The one marked with the number 47.