The green stuff works. That was never in question. The green stuff brings a man back, and it brings him back improved — which is the word on the grant application, and the word the committee objected to.
So here we are at two in the morning. The boy in the chair. Rings coming off his head in colours the ceiling was never painted for. Every loose page in the building airborne. And something with too many arms unfolding out of the corner that nobody has agreed to write down yet.
Look at the old man, though. Look at that face. He held out the vial, he got his result, and the only thing on his mind now is whether there's enough left in the bottle for a second run.
There is. There always is.
