September 3rd, 1964
Gemma was still sobbing into her pillow when breakfast was served. The nurse slipped in, set the tray on the dresser since the tea table was tipped on its side in front of the observation window, and slipped back out without a word. Gemma guessed she must be trained not to interact with the test subjects when they were especially emotional. Reading Harry Haworth’s patient notes last night, Gemma concluded that if she were a nurse here, she certainly wouldn’t want to get within arm’s reach of him on one of his curiously regular bad days. She sniffled and rolled back out of bed.
Now that the Coconut had settled into a purple tinged sinus headache and she’d collected herself, Gemma was apprehensive of what would happen next. And hungry, actually. She hadn’t eaten last night and she’d worked up an appetite throwing her furniture around. More than anything, though, she was embarrassed.
It was a rookie mistake. Not even twenty-four hours into this subterfuge and she’d already blown her cover.
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