A H.E.R.O.S PROJECT 12

26. You're next

We're finally invited inside Richie's laboratory at night when Richie is almost positive no mishaps will occur, and the room has been prepped and made safe for visitors. As a precaution, Richie warns Tristian and me not to touch anything and go directly to our designated seats out of harm's way. Truthfully, he confessed, "This has to work, but I expect the best and worst, and I don't know how long this will take. That's why you should go where I tell you and do what I say from here on out." He makes me promise to listen to him, and we cross an x over our hearts.

Promise sealed.

Thankfully, Mom wasn't coming home. Richie could operate on himself for as long as he needed until the sun rose. The bad part: Grandpa would come to Eugenes tomorrow to care for us like Mom said he would.

Grandpa had called me twice tonight, once after Richie and Dougie finished their slide show and I was walking into the house and the second at my bedtime, around ten. I didn't trust myself and ignored his phone calls and deleted the long follow-up voicemails. So close to the end, Richie believed he knew how to fix us. My faith in Richie had reached the ledge. I would be lying if I said I wholly trusted Richie. I promised Richie I wouldn't ask Grandpa for the truth: Are you involved with the government? Have you ever done inhumane testing on humans? Who are you? What do you know? But this gnawing thought, what if we were wasting time not asking Grandpa for help? I contemplated in those hours, waiting for Richie to let me into the lab to take matters into my own hands.

At dinner, Tristian ordered pizza for everyone; I considered begging Richie to reconsider my proposition. I reached and held his hand at the dinner table, and before I could speak, "Thank you, Anaya, for giving me a chance," he said, his eyes watery. He, too, tightens his fingers around my hand. Dougie and Lee pretended not to notice Richie tearing up and talking about comics and if Lee could actually make a lightsaber. The conversation was interesting enough that Tristian got off her phone to persuade Lee to make the lightsaber blue, her favorite color.

"I know you can do it," I lied, choosing not to ruin this moment between us. "If anyone can do this, it's you."

Richie's laboratory is brighter than usual because the car batteries and generator pump electricity into two steel wands on a rubber bed table. Made from junkyard scrapes and Mom's bedroom lamp, our cure formed. The wands looked dangerous and poorly made, and unstable. Anyone in their right mind would object to allowing Richie to use the cure, but who am I to say no? Richie is the genius, not me.

We were instructed to wear fluorescent blue goggles, ugly rubber red gloves, and heavy plastic black trash bag suits with hoods that reek of spray paint. Dougie, Lee, Tristian, and I dressed for extraction. Lee was the fastest to get dressed and helped the rest of us get into our suits, ensuring we covered our hair, face, and skin. Lee then wraps duct tape around our wrists, ankles, and goggles as a sealant so nothing touches us.

"I will bury you by George Lucas...when he dies, though, we pray George Lucas has a long-long life," Dougie swears to Richie, his best friend, colleague, and willing test subject. A last-minute hug solidifies Dougie's strange gift. We all need to leave George Lucas alone.

"Thank you," Richie smiles.

Teary eyes fall on me—my turn to wish the genius a proper precautionary farewell.

"Richie, I've loved you like a brother." Someone boos and I snap my head around to see who did it. "Be safe." And I won't tell Mom and Grandpa you killed yourself trying to be my hero because we are German lab rats. I'll bury your body first, and I'll have Tristian bury my body next to yours.

Lee politely tells Dougie, Tristan, and me to take our seats in the back of the lab. Lee patiently waits for everyone to sit.

The lab is quiet.