He remained in the living room, working from his laptop, but his thoughts kept drifting towards Melody. Honestly, he was starting to get a little frustrated with her behavior. She was so stubborn, and she seemed to reject things just because he thought of them. He was certain, for example, that she would have been open to the idea of going to therapy if she'd been the one to think of it first. He knew she was a smart girl, so he couldn't conceive of any reason for her to resist other than deliberate stubbornness. He was trying to help her- didn't she see that? Why was she making it so difficult for him? He wondered if he'd made a mistake and been too lenient in how he allowed her to grieve. He wasn't a trained therapist, after all. He would ask whatever therapist they settled on for advice.

I don't like how she mopes around the house all day, he thought. Surely it's healthier to be active rather than passive? To go outside at least? He was reasonably sure the research showed that. Well, he thought, he was her father. He could arrange for something. He thought for a moment, then got up and walked to the kitchen. Pausing in the doorway, he cleared his throat.

“Melody,” he said. “Would you like to do something today? We could-”

He paused, trying to think of some activity to suggest. It struck him then that it had been a very long time since they had done something special together. What did she like to do? She used to hang out with her friends, and... his mind drew a blank, and he frowned. Surely it wasn't so hard a thing to figure out.

“We could go to the park,” he said, trying to cover up his pause. “Or to the mall.” Girls her age loved to go to the mall didn't they? “Or to the science center.” She had loved that when she was younger, he remembered.

Melody Newton

He heard Melody moving around before she knocked on the door and came in. “Good morning, Melody,” he said, looking her up and down. His first thought was that she looked disheveled. He reminded himself that she had just gotten up and a certain amount of untidiness was expected. Still... it seemed to him she looked worse than usual. His lips tightened slightly. He hoped he was not making an error by being too permissive. The psychological literature seemed to suggest that a period of unscheduled rest was useful for getting over grief, but indicated that a normal schedule should resume after a time to reestablish a sense of normality. The papers were frustratingly vague on exactly when the switch should happen, however. A few days? A few weeks? He was especially worried given Melody's tendency towards apathy; he would certainly need to step in at some point before all this got too far.

He cleared his throat as she reached for the pill bottle. “Did you forget yesterday?” He did his best to keep his voice calm and even, despite how much her missing troubled him; he usually trusted her to handle her own medication. It would certainly be grounds for concern if it became a regular habit. A teen's failure to take care of themselves was associated with several different, potentially serious conditions.

But he tried to keep himself from worrying too much. He had a plan that would hopefully help Melody get through all of this.

“Your breakfast is in the oven,” he told Melody. “I have also placed on the table a stack of printouts from the websites of several highly reviewed therapists in our area, both male and female. Please take a look and let me know which one you would like to talk to.”

Melody Newton

The young woman lay on the bed. The room was white and light by a hard fluorescent glow. There was the sound of movement, quiet words, the beep of monitors. Melvin had his eye on the brainwaves monitor and so had just a moment's warning before Claire sat bolt upright and relaxed back down onto the bed. She was becoming better at keeping her mind in order when she woke unexpectedly; she hadn't tried to run since that one unfortunate incident.

She gave her name and location. Good, she still had a mind for where she was, then. She asked what number that was. “Fifteen. Look at me, please.” He shined a light in her eyes, checking for dilation, then squeezed one of her fingertips and watched the capillary refill beneath the nail. “How do you feel?”

A nurse pushed a form and a pencil towards Claire for her to fill out about the last session. They had told Claire that this was an endurance test, an attempt to see how long and how hard she could go, which was true, but, as he had explained to Claire before, sometimes the nature of this sort of testing meant the subject had to be ignorant of exactly what was going on until after the test was over. There was so much more to look at. What drugs worked best, her speed of travel, if she could view objects inside locked boxes and how far her ability could take her. Since meeting Claire, Melvin's desire to understand abilities had grown almost to a ravenous hunger. He poured over her results, reading the same reports over and over again. When he arrived home to an empty house (Melody was at school, that was good, it was good for her to be there even though it left the house so quiet and empty) he kept a copy of the file at his elbow as he sat down to eat dinner. The opportunity they had here was incredible. The possibility for advancing human knowledge, vast. Yet progress was slow.

He tried to tell himself not to worry. Science took time, always. Yet it was frustrating how a breakthrough seemed to be always just one test in front of them. They were constantly on the cusp of understanding, yet never quite reaching the knowledge that vanished like a mirage when they came within reach. It frustrated him- infuriated him, even. In the great game of hide and seek that every man of science plays with the universe, he felt as though he was being outwitted. And he hated the feeling.

A nurse began fiddling with the electrodes on Claire's head, re-taping those that had come off when she sat up. Melvin picked up an ear thermometer. “Must you bolt upright every time? You're dislodging the sensors.” He hadn't meant for it to sound disapproving but it seemed to come out harsher than he had intended. Oh well. That hardly mattered; the science was what matter.

He checked her temperature, compared it to the reading on the monitor. They had sensors monitoring everything from her blood sugar to the function of her kidneys- a treasure trove of physiological information, the vast majority of it likely completely useless except to assert that Miss Eliot was a healthy young woman. He paused for a look at her blood sugar in particular- an endurance test for Claire meant being put under multiple times in succession, and as was the case with any anesthesia, the biggest risk was aspirating vomit into the lungs. As a result they'd put her on a diet of clear liquids for 24 hours prior to the start of the test. It was both a safety measure and part of the test itself.

“If you are not choosing to tap out, we'll begin prepping to put you under again. Your target this time will be the room labeled 6A.” He indicated a printout taped to the wall across from Claire, a map of the facility with rooms labeled by number and letter. “There will be three envelopes on a table in there...”

Claire Elliot
Nathan Havelock

“I think about Poe, sometimes, in situations like this,” said Melvin. “Have you read it?”

It was later. They had failed. Mark slept soundly in his room, not yet aware of the disappointment. For an instant, there had been hope. Melvin had been watching Kegan's brain activity throughout the procedure, observing the slowing of the waves that came with sedation, the easing of them into deep, steady rhythm. Then had come the administration of the scent, and for a brief, glorious instant Melvin had felt something like excitement: Waves still the same. Come on, come on-

Then the change had washed over the screen like a Tsunami, and the sedated Keegan had snarled and jerked against his restraints, eyes half shut yet face somehow still a mask of slack fury until more drugs at last put him under again. He was sleeping now. Melvin stood in one of the break rooms, a can of V8 in his hand, a blank and gray wall at his back. He faced straight ahead but his brow was furrowed and his eyes distant, almost misty. He took a sip from his drink.

“Poe had a strange idea about the universe,” said Melvin. “Most people, you understand think of the universe as benevolent- or neutral, at least. A few very strange people think it's malevolent. But Poe didn't believe any of those things. Poe believed that universe, in some way, sought story. Stories of us. And the very specific kind of story that the universe sought, in Poe's mind, was tragedy. A malevolent universe, you see, would just kill us all outright. But a universe seeking stories of tragedy would let us build ourselves up, get close to our goals and then, at the last minute,” he snapped his fingers, the ones that weren't holding the drink can, “snatch them away.

“All nonsense, of course,” he said suddenly, taking another sip of his drink. “It's a matter of first principle that the universe is indifferent. Still,” he said, finishing his drink and dropping it in the trash can. “You can sometimes begin to see why he would think that.

“In any case, more work with Mr. Keegan will have to wait for the time being. Was there something else you wanted to ask me about, Dr. Havelock?”

Nathan Havelock

For the past several hours, Melvin's mind had focused on tbis confrontation. He had played it out from dozens of angles, statements, possible responses. And yet, for all that, he had hardly spent any time deciding what he would say. It had been too theoretical. Whatever words he came up with always seemed too inflexible, too flimsy.

He didn't know what he'd been hoping for from Melody. Some form of regret, probably. A glimmer of self-awareness, certainly. Instead what he got was an angry face and a comment about invading her privacy.

Privacy? Invading her privacy? She was on her way to ruining herself for no reason, and she was talking about privacy? A billowing fury seemed to seize him. How could she be so myopic? It was no longer primarily about the drugs. It was about the attitude, the blasted stubbornness and absolute refusal to even try and look at things a different way. She was steering the ship of her life directly towards the rocks- to spite him? Why? Why, for the love of god, why?

"Privacy," he said, and his voice was cold and harsh. "Rights, Melody, are for people who don't abuse them. You don't get to preach cannibalism and call it freedom of religion. And you don't get to drive your life into a ditch and then claim that privacy prevents me from interfering. Sit down."

Melody Newton

To tell the truth, the boarding school wasn't an option that Melvin had really considered.

It just seemed extreme, really; at heart, Melody was not a bad child, simply one undergoing some difficulties. And who could blame her, really, with the usual stresses of teenagehood and no mother in her life to help her. He had mentioned it only because it was an option, and, validity aside, all options should be on the table. For completeness, of course. He had been confident Melody would reject the idea, and that, in all likelihood, would be the end of it.

So he was entirely unprepared for the fury that burst from her almost before he had finished the words. It took him off guard, leaving him suddenly at a loss for words. "What? No, it was because- Melody, that's not what I-"

But he couldn't find words in time, and a moment later he was alone again, staring at her plate left on the table. The force of her fury- and yes, of her pain, too, startled him. It had only been an option. How could she think he was trying to get rid of her? Did she trust him that little?

He stared at the plate she'd left on the table, sticky with syrup. He opened his mouth to call for her to put it away, but hesitated. Would she just see that as another incitement? Another reason to get angry from his overbearing exactitude? Then again, what if the problem was that she wasn't being required to take enough responsibility? What if putting it away for her just exasperated it?

He hesitated, wavering between his options. He suddenly felt a surge of frustration. He was a scientist. He'd solved problems of protein folds and brain chemistry and partially infinite mathematics. And this was the problem he couldn't solve? A fifteen year old girl?

For the past months as Melody had acted out her rebellion, he had kept himself carefully controlled. Restrained. Trusting that this phase, too, would pass, that with a touch of reason and giving her time to think things through it would all be over. Now he had a horrible vision of it all being a complete failure. He imagined years going by, the tensions between them unresolved. The anger undulled. It filled his heart with a sudden and deep fear.

He stood, worry clouding his face. He walked to the front hall and stood there a moment and caught his daughter on the way out.

"Goodbye, Melody," he said. "Have a good day. I... love you."

And she waa gone. He stood alonw by the stairs, staring off into space. His hands clenched into fists by his side. They began to tremble.

How dare she. How dare she treat him like this. Couldn't she see that he was giving her every possible space? Every possible indulgence? He'd tried so hard to be reasonable, to find that thin balance between being overbearing and being independent. He'd gone over his conduct with a microscope, seeking every improvement he could. And had it helped? No. Still this rebellion, still this fury.

It wasn't his fault. He'd looked over his actions and he couldn't find one thing he should have done differently. He'd followed the books and his own sense to the letter. Nobody could have asked him for more. No. There was no point in examining himself any further. If he couldn't find his own fault, the logical conclusion was that he wasn't at fault.

Melody was. This was entirely her doing.

He stood at the base of the stairs a moment longer. Then, glancing up, he set his jaw and began to walk upwards. Slowly. He went down the hall and came, as always, to Melody's room. He paused with his hand on the knob. Was this a good idea? Truly? Then he rallied himself, pushed the door aside, and went in.

He searched every inch of her room. He looked in every drawer, in every corner of her closest, under the mattress, in the corners where the carpet might come up and leave a space for hiding things. Nothing was left unturned. Every so often an internal voice would ask if this was such a good idea, but he pushed it aside. He was her father. He had a right, no, a duty, to do this. To know what was inside.

When he was done he stared at the objects he had found, neither frustrated nor upset but grimly accepting. It would have been better, he thought, if she had had nothing. But now he couldn't let this stand. He had to do something.

So it was that when Melody returned from school that day, he was sitting in the living room, objects laid on the coffee table in front of him.

"Hello, Melody," he said, motioning at the table. "Sit down. Let's talk about these."

Melody Newton