There was, in fact, no one outside—lurking or otherwise. Unless they were lurking in the bushes. We didn’t see a soul. Myra and I walked in to the sterile looking facility, which appeared much like any other doctor’s office. Black chairs lined the walls, broken up in twos and threes by wooden tables piled with outdated magazines. At the moment, all the chairs were empty. To the left was a receptionist’s window, enclosed by a glass partition. I stepped up to the receptionist’s window. The receptionist—a woman with short red hair and glasses with tortoise shell frames—looked up and opened the window. “Hello,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?” “No, we’re here to ask about someone who might have been a patient here.” “We’re not allowed to give out any information on test subjects,” she said. “Well, I’m not even sure he was a test subject. His name is Fred Duncan. Can you tell me if he’s on your client list?” I asked. “No, I can’t. We’re bound by strict confidentiality agreements with both our test subjects and our corporate sponsors.”
