12
The new year brought with it new inspiration but no new sources of income.
Once Emory had exhausted his theories about manipulating the blood already in the body, he pivoted toward transfusions and the use of synthetic blood substitutes.
Debts mounted as he tried to concoct therapeutics that had over eighty different components that could mirror and, in some ways, even exceed the oxygen-carrying functions of human blood.
But financial restraints clamped down on his creativity, and the frigid winter without work pulled him into a depression so deep some days he barely could get out of bed. His chest felt like it had a tiny hole in it and water was constantly pouring inside, sinking him slowly.
Meals got skipped. Rent payments got skipped, too. Regina came calling a few times, but he pretended he wasn’t home or was too sick to answer.
He holed up in the apartment withering and working away until March went out like a lamb. That’s when Joe came knocking, roaring like a lion, asking why Emory hadn’t been on the Susanna the morning of April first.
Disoriented and vaguely skeletal, he blinked against the daylight that sliced in through the open front door, drew on his shoes, and huffed out to the docks, happy for his routine to restart.
As the days passed, he got his coloring, his strength, and his groove back.
Still, after he’d settled up with Regina over the back rent—which he sheepishly slipped through her mail slot without so much as a note—he was no better off financially than he was before.
Around mid-August, in the library, Emory settled down at a computer, but his research felt like it had hit a dead end.
Absentmindedly, he found himself searching for University College of Medicine his pits dampened, and goose bumps dotted up the back of his neck.
Puberty hit around ninth grade, and that’s when Emory realized he wasn’t attracted to girls, but he knocked any such thoughts to the back of his mind, preferring to throw himself into his studies and remain sexless.
Yes, Emory Griffin was a twenty-seven-year-old virgin, and he’d never even considered changing that status until Anderson caught him about to steal from the health center.
Pleased with Anderson’s generosity and heartened that he didn’t speak a word about Emory breaking and entering, Emory decided he needed to trust Anderson with the intricacies of his invisibility project if he had any hope of meeting his November deadline.
Once he was finished detailing it, their parallel thinking on Marvel Jr.’s case was immediate. The way they volleyed thoughts was almost arousing. Rarely was Emory’s intellect matched with such enthusiasm.
At one point, they both reached for the half-empty ketchup bottle in a rusted holder. A fraction of a second’s touch sent sparks flying up Emory’s arm. Anderson smiled on one side of his mouth. Was he feeling the heat, too?
As they cleaned up, Anderson said, “I’ll get you what you need for the blood substitute. I’ll have the nurse set it aside for you to pick up tomorrow or Saturday at the latest. Let’s do this again on Tuesday.”