Emmett jolted awake. Morning light slanted in through the blinds, slicing the bedroom into orderly
chunks: the wobbly IKEA desk, the rumpled T. J. Maxx comforter, the Pokémon posters tacked up to the
wall, corners heavily pricked after multiple moves. Rent hikes had forced Emmett and Lizette to switch
apartments three times in five years before they found the Cabana Apartments, a pair of charmingly
stained stucco buildings in Point Loma near his dad’s old condo. A mile to work and two to the beach.
An airplane d eparting from San Diego International blared overhead, an occurrence so constant they
barely noticed it anymore.
For a moment Emmett felt as if he were still in the dream, the surgeons standing just out of sight. What
was that about? He reached across to the nightstand and hit the button on his CPAP, halting the flow of
air through his face mask. Bella, tucked up beside him, shot to her feet; when the machine went off, it
was time to get up.
Emmett had been diagnosed with sle ep apnea at twenty-six, embarrassed because the condition was a
common symptom of obesity, relieved because he finally knew why he always felt exhausted even after a
full night’s sle ep. It turned out he’d barely been sle eping at all. Without a continuous stream of air
through his airway, his slackened throat muscles collapsed under the fat bearing down on them. His
at-home sle ep trial had shown he’d stopped breathing up to eighteen times per hour, unknowingly
snorting himself awake each time. His brain’s automatic response to his body’s casual attempts to murder
him.
Emmett removed his mask and tossed it onto the nightstand, rubbed at the ring of raw skin around his
nose. He wasn’t needed at work until one but got up
anyway, finding Armando at the stove in boxers and a band tee, making breakfast for Lizette, who was
still in bed. They greeted each other with a few easy words of good morning, Emmett careful to ke ep his
eyes where they belonged. Armando was mid-twenties and cute, a “bear cub” in gay terms. Emmett liked
Armando but resented him too.
After four years of on-and-off dating, it seemed inevitable that one day he’d snatch Lizette away forever,
and then what would Emmett have? “What’re you up to today?” Emmett asked, switching on the
coffeemaker.
“Got a game at noon. You oughta come.” Armando was a shortstop for the Coyotes in the San Diego
Adult Baseball League. Since they’d started practicing at the nearby community ball field, he’d been
staying over even more often.
“Sorry, got work.” “Bad luck. Want some eggs?” Emmett declined; he rarely ate breakfast, usually too
full from last night’s dinner. While his iced coffee brewed, he looked at his phone and saw that Monstera
Bio Sciences had emailed. An invitation to apply to join the clinical trial. He said bye to Armando and
took the coffee back to his room.
The online form wasn’t so different from the job applications he’d been firing off in his increasingly
desperate efforts to leave Target. The most recent one, submitted the previous week, had been for his
dream job as a full-time achievement coach for Future Makers. He’d practically squealed when he saw
the posting. The pay was above twenty bucks an hour, and he not only met but exceeded the
requirements—they were only asking for a bachelor’s degree and experience working with youth. He
was the ideal candidate (exc ept for the obvious). Even as he worked on the Monstera application, he
couldn’t help checking his email for a response, as he had been for days. No luck.
He returned to the online form. In addition to asking his weight, height, and medical history, the
application required him to answer several questions. Why do you want to join this clinical trial?
Describe your weight loss journey to this point. How do you feel Obexity™ would improve your and
others’ lives?
Then, a curveball: Who knows you are completing this application?
Unable to justify the tickle of discomfort at the back of his mind, he began to type. My best friend
Lizette’s probably figured it out—she came to the info session with me and knows I want to do the trial,
even though she’s going to judge me for it.
Other than that, no one?? I don’t think I’ll tell my family. My brother Chris wouldn’t understand why I
don’t just “hit the gym” if I want to lose weight. My sister Abby would act concerned—or maybe
supportive, d epending on the day—then gossip about me to my mom and Chris. My dad would probably
approve, but I barely talk to him these days. Mom would obsess, either with worry or interest in the
outcome—I’m guessing a combination of both.
Honestly, I can’t stand the thought of getting her hopes up only to disappoint her when this all turns out
to be (no offense) another failed weight loss experiment. I’ve disappointed her—all of them—enough for
one lifetime.
Emmett paused, then hammered the backspace key, abbreviating his answer to a less vulnerable level of
earnestness. He probably ought to wait and read it over later on, but he was eager to get it off his plate.
He hit submit.
No automatic confirmation email, but it was probably just being slow. He shut his laptop and got ready
for work. That afternoon was more than usually nightmarish. The store was rammed.
Rick was in a mood after a bad inspection r eport from the regional manager. Then an ambulance was
called after a woman had a suspected heart attack while trying on swimwear despite the signs begging
customers not to. She was okay, but Emmett saw her being carted out on a stretcher—red-faced,
open-mouthed, belly spilling out from under her tankini—and it terrified him, the thought of looking like
that in front of all those people.
After clocking out for the night, exhausted, he ventured back onto the sales floor in search of a gift for his
niece, who was turning four in a week’s time. Chris was throwing a big party at his house. Abby would
be there too, and their mom was driving in from Nevada.
Emmett wasn’t close with either of his siblings—not as close as they were with each other—but he’d at
least shared a childhood home with Abby. Chris,
his half brother, had lived with their dad growing up, and besides the name Truesdale, the brothers had
very little in common. Chris was nine years older and the archetype of Southern California masculinity,
as blond and sculpted as a sandcastle, chasing waves and girls since Emmett could walk. For years Chris
had tortured Emmett with names like chunk, butterball, girly-man. After high school, Chris taught surf
camp at the local YMCA, and Emmett would never forget how dubious the female counselors looked
when they found out they were brothers, or how Chris stopped acknowledging him whenever girls came
around.
To his credit, Chris seemed to have grown up since then. He’d apologized for being a dick when they
were younger, gone through a phase of forcing Emmett out clubbing with his friends and him, and now
that his partying days were behind him, insisted on slightly awkward family gatherings for every holiday
and birthday. Emmett played along, partly because he was obsessed with Chris’s kids, Harper and her
thirteen-month-old brother, Jaxson. Emmett even managed to overlook their awful trendy names and
miniature wardrobes of designer brands he was too big to try on even just for fun. They tolerated him in
return, perhaps not least because he usually came bearing gifts.
He lingered in the toy d epartment for an age, unable to find anything he could remotely afford even with
his employee discount: 10 percent off normal stuff and 20 percent off “wellness items”—fruits and
vegetables, diet food, activewear. Why didn’t the company just come out and say they were all too fat?
He selected an extortionately priced Frozen thing and joined the line for self- checkout, daydreaming
about the clinical trial’s five-figure payout. He idly checked his email for the delayed confirmation, and
gasped so loudly the woman ahead of him shot him a censorious look.
The subject line of the email atop his inbox was far better than the one he’d been expecting. It read:
Achievement Coach—Interview Request.