“One ninety-seven. You’ve put on a pound,” Dr. Halleck said two weeks later, reading over Emmett’s
vitals at his scheduled check-in. “H-have I?” Emmett’s hands fidgeted in his lap. He’d been dreading the
appointment.
Given the ongoing murder investigation, it was silly to be nervous about a doctor’s visit, but the Cronus
Health medical office gave him the cre eps, and it always felt like Halleck was one bad day away from
ordering Emmett’s euthanasia.
If he’d gained a pound since his last doctor’s visit, then he’d put on a hell of a lot more since he was at
his lowest weight. This didn’t necessarily surprise him. He’d been off Obexity for weeks, and although
his physical hunger had abated, his eating had remained out of control. It felt like he spent most of his
monthly trial stipend on fast food and groceries, at least what remained of it after paying rent and the loan
on his new-to-him Nissan Sentra. It was all he could do to cope with the stress.
“You been taking your doses?” Halleck said, eyes on the clipboard. “Yeah,” Emmett answered. Even to
his own ear, it sounded like a lie. “I mean, I might’ve forgotten once or twice. The drug affects my
memory.”
“Do you think Ema C-8 is a joke?” “No—” “It’s not. Even a slight variance from the prescribed dosage
can lead to extreme volatility in the endocrine system.” “Endocrine?” “The system that creates and
releases hormones. It’s how your body regulates mood, metabolism, growth. We’ve seen cases of
participants doubling up doses,
creating a sudden, dramatic imbalance in thyroxine and triiodothyronine, with weight fluctuations to
match. Double that in moments of high stress.” There was something strange about the way he said “high
stress.” Had he read Emmett’s last health journal? Part of him had been expecting him to bring it up.
“So you’re saying—” “Follow the trial protocol. Take your doses, or I’m pulling you out of the trial. This
is a serious medical study, not a game.” Do I look like I’m having fun? Emmett wanted to say. But
getting off Obexity hadn’t just reversed his weight loss; in more ways than one, it had taken the bite out
of him.
Halleck stared, then turned his back to his patient. “You can go.” “I need my next set of injections.” “You
said you missed a couple doses. So you should still have some. Use what you’ve got first.”
Shit. “And if I misplaced those?” Halleck looked around, an eyebrow cocked. “Then I’d assume you’re
selling them illegally.” “Why would I—” “Upmarket drug dealers love experimental weight loss
products. You could probably make a killing.” Halleck snorted, as if recognizing the irony.
Emmett didn’t doubt there was a market for Ema C-8, but Halleck was projecting. Participants choosing
to stay fat for a bit of extra cash? He’d read studies about formerly obese people saying they’d rather get
cancer or lose a limb than regain the weight.
“You doubt it?” Halleck said, reading Emmett’s expression. “Surely you’re not that naïve. Greed and
obesity are comorbidities. Obexity can only cure one.”