I made one big change to the plot – if you check the entry for Day 1, you’ll now see that Edward Nambet is deceased. He died at the age of eighteen. Yesterday’s entry also updated the state of his death, commenting that the boy had died in a car crash. This change is absolutely crucial to the next part of the plot, which should be coming around tomorrow.

I only wrote 1667 words today. I had a bit of a brain fair, and rethought a lot of the next part of the story. I found a plot device that fits with the clues I’ve been leaving throughout the novel, and hopefully this was a good idea and not a horrible one. It should piece together a lot of the puzzles that have been flowing around throughout the novel, and lead it to the halfway point in style (and possibly be a little creepy, too).

Word Count: 41,679

A pot was under the sink, water filling it up. I mixed the water with some Emeticillin that I had gotten from the hospital. I had a few other chemicals I thought mixing together might make a powerful antibiotic. So, I attempted making my strange antibiotic stew. The water boiled, and the Emeticillin went in. The other chemicals were mixed into a single solution, and slowly emptied into the antibiotic stew. It was ready and cooled with an hour. I took the tissue sample I’d stolen from the dead person back at the hospital and placed it on a stray that had been heating up in the oven for a while. Once everything was cooled down, I put the chunk of skin on the plate and poured my solution over it.

The only thing left to do was wait until the morning to see the results. I hoped that they would be magnificent, but I couldn’t know what was going to happen until I slept. The next morning I would see exactly what the solution had done. It had done nothing – under the microscope, which I also had brought home with me, I could still see the bacteria. They were on the plate, all over it in fact, but the chunk of skin itself was completely destroyed. The antibiotic was either highly acidic or had made the tissue so vulnerable that the bacteria could rip it apart.

I had just barely examined the sample when the doorbell rang. Not knowing who it could have been that early in the morning, I opened the door. In front of me stood the warehouse worker – a member of the “First Four,” as I came to call them. “I was ordered to come here and give this to ya. I looked up yer address. It’s a letter, just for you.” He handed me a bleak, slightly dampened envelope. “Thanks fer takin’ it. I’ll be off now, if ya don’t mind.”

“Wait. Who’s this letter from?” I asked.

“Well, if ya open it you’ll find out!” he said, and smirked. I thought that it was probably from his wife or something, thanking me for checking out her husband, or scolding me for keeping him away from her for a day, just as Noah had shunned me for keeping Shane away from her for those many days. I bid goodbye to the warehouse worker and with him all of the First Four. I sat down under the painting in my kitchen to open the letter, using my special letter opener to ensure I didn’t rip the paper. The contents were damp, so I did not want to rip them. Inside the envelope was a single slip of fancy stationary, typed and signed at the bottom. It was very official-looking, and read:

“Dear Sir Ethan Hemmings,

It is our pleasure to greet you. We have heard much of your work. We are a people dedicated to living in good health, and would like to invite you to a dinner party that we are holding to discuss the latest advancements in antibiotic medicine. If you are interested, please come to building 410, on the first left off of exit 37A into the city on the eleventh of December at eight o’clock in the evening. We would be so happy to see you here, and eagerly await your arrival. We can also offer advice, if you are currently participating in a project of some sort and need assistance. It’s set to be a wonderful meeting of the minds, so do stop by.

Do not feel obliged to bring any of your belongings with you. They will not be necessary.

Sincerely,

Tamben Doradwe.”

I closed the letter. I’d never heard of this man, but I knew that I’d be getting nowhere looking for a cure. It was tempting to take the shortcut and ask for help from a meeting of medical advisors. The painting sung in approval. My conscience in turn sung with it. I decided that I would go to the dinner, which was only two days away. The letter had told me not to prepare, but what better had I to do? I prepared, and looked up Tamben Doradwe in several online directories. Tamben was a Hispanic surgeon who had over sixty years of experience and was now retired, often acting as a medical advisor for even highly skilled doctors. His nickname was “tambien,” the Spanish word for “also,” because he always had something to add to a conversation – usually constructive and incredibly useful. His services did not come cheap – his own web page offered astronomical prices for medical advice directly, and if a doctor wanted help or instruction from this master he would have to dish out a price one-third of what the patient would have to. It seemed reputable.

The two days flew by. I rested and regained by strength, ate full meals every day, and was pleased to know that a person of such high status wished to aid me in my search for a cure to this strange disease. Those two nights were without a doubt the most relaxing days I had during my adventure, God forbid that I have any relaxing days anymore. Sensing that after meeting Doradwe I would not have the chance to relax for some time, I rested as much as possible. I hardly felt hungry up until the time of the dinner. When I drove into the city on the night of the event I still didn’t feel hungry, but the clicking of the car was especially prominent. I considered that the sign that my relaxing time was finished, and motored off into the city. The air became smoggy, and it was difficult to breathe.

It was foggy, making it difficult to see the exit signs. Mother Nature should have been cursed for making fog – clouds were never meant to sink and block our vision, especially into a place as dreadful as the city. I could already lose myself inside of the metropolis – now I knew I could get lost simply driving there as well! But I did find the exit. I drove slowly, with watchful eyes. The fire in my eyes lit the way. I was completely determined to attend this event and find out everything that this genius man knew. I wanted to absorb everything he had absorbed in his years. Once I was inside the city the fog faded, and I rushed through the city traffic dodging cars and buses to reach my destination.

The building was lavish, but not large. It looked more like a sanctuary than anything else, from the outside at least. There were stained glass windows and a large wooden double-door entrance. It was completely archaic. I parked nearby – there were not many cars, despite this being a party. I assumed that most of the attendees were those who lived all their lives in the city, and had adapted to the environment by never driving. Walking everywhere. I couldn’t imagine walking everywhere. I could only imagine walking to places inside the hospital. That was the furthest I ever walked, from one end of the hospital to the other.

The hallways were lined with wall-mounted candelabras and candelabras on countertops. The floor creaked, and the doors squeaked as I opened them. Once inside the building, one could not hear the sounds of the outside world, as loud as the city was. It was entirely secluded, as though entering this building meant entering another world. Near the end of the hallways was always a light. There was always a light leading into the next room, the next hallway. This was building 410. As small as it was, it was a maze – a network of hallways. Eventually, I noticed that the path to the dining room was marked off with red tape. I followed the tape and reached the dining room, where a large elliptical table waited for guests to fill its surrounding seats. There were a few guests already seated, chattering nonsensical topics of interest and random small talk. As the room filled in, the dinner became more interesting – but Doradwe did not make an appearance until near twenty minutes after he’d asked me to be there.

Just before I was beginning to feel slightly abandoned, Mr. Doradwe stepped into the room, greeted by ominous jeers and chants from his beloved guests. Doradwe, not as old looking as one would assume – downright young looking, in fact, comparable to Shane’s twenty-years-young syndrome – was incredibly friendly, and had a perpetual smile on his face. He shook the hand of every man that said hello to him and every woman as well. He was not old-fashioned in the least.

“And who do we have here? My, my! Mr. Hemmings, so glad to see you decided to come!” His voice sounded familiar to me. I shook his hand. With that he walked to the head of the table and announced that dinner would be served shortly, and that in the meantime we should continue discussing our current topics. I discussed with no one. I knew no one, and I had no interest in anybody other than Doradwe. I didn’t want to mention my work to anybody, even though they all had somehow heard of what I was doing. That was the first time I began to think that this dinner was not going to be everything I expected it to be – not a miracle shortcut, and certainly not the road to a cure for an epidemic I knew had to be stopped.