California Tower comprised 125 st eps split over seven flights, the first six of which each ended in a small
square room of rough concrete walls, with historical photos set up on easels for the educational tour
groups that usually ran daily.
Emmett hadn’t yet reached the third floor when he heard the gate rattle below him, and an officer’s voice
shouted, “There he is! We need a key, get someone with a key!” Rushing past the carillon and an old map
of Balboa Park, Emmett started up the next flight of stairs, picking up the pace at the sound of the
security gate slamming open and footst eps thundering up after him.
The tolling of the carillon reverberated through him to the tune of the Westminster Quarters. As he
maneuvered through the fourth floor, again finding nowhere to hide, the chimes marked the noon hour
with twelve long tolls, each as dour as a death knell.
Dong! More stairs. Emmett pushed on. He could feel his adrenaline fighting the d epleting effects of the
Obexity still saturating his bloodstream. His leg muscles flamed. His heart pummeled the walls of his
chest.
Dong! Air scraped through his lungs like shards of glass as he grasped the railing for stability. Gravity
had strengthened its downward pull on his feet, not as if he was losing steam, but almost like his body
was gaining mass.
Dong! No—he was gaining mass. His stress had activated the drug. With a rush of horror he perceived
the fattening of his arms and legs, the expanding flab of his stomach filling out the billowing sack of his
hoodie.
Dong! The officers’ footst eps crashed through the room below. Grinding his muscles into action, he
forced his bloating body up the next flight of stairs, hoping the final landing would provide cover. Every
stair climbed felt like a st ep backward in time, as he gained back the weight Obexity had sheared off. His
body expanded in undulating waves as he dragged himself up, weight bearing down on his joints with a
painful gnashing of cartilage and bone.
Dong! The final landing was a tall room with a wrought-iron stair spiraling up toward a hole in the
ceiling. There was only one place left to go. He was practically crawling now, each st ep more torturous
than the last. His feet throbbed. Lactic acid screamed through the muscles of his shaking legs. He was
half-convinced it was coming, the heart attack he’d always known would kill him one day. Something
cold and hard dug into his side: the railing, enveloped by the swelling mass of his love handle.
Dong! At last he collapsed onto the public viewing deck, his fat washing forward like a crashing wave.
He squinted up at the light flooding in on all sides. A quartet of high, balconied arches offered views in
every direction: the jagged shine of downtown to the south, the historic splendor of El Prado to the east;
to the north, the verdant drama of Balboa Park and the zoo; to the west, Cabrillo Bridge pointing toward
the Pacific.
It cast a spell of calm over Emmett as he stumbled toward the south balcony, barely noticing the caution
tape strung across it, the broken railing in the process of being fortified. For a moment he forgot his
aching feet, the pain pulsing through his joints. Even the sound of footst eps on the spiral stair. For a
second there was only this moment, this place.
He’d lived in the city his whole life, and this was his first time seeing it like this. How much beauty had
he missed out on to avoid humiliation? How much life had he not lived in devotion to the low ground,
where he felt he belonged?
The final bell tolled. Dong! “Hands up!” a voice shouted behind him.
Emmett turned. An officer pointed a gun from the stairs, panting. He was extremely thin, his flushed
brown face sagging and waxy—an Obexity face if Emmett had ever seen one. This had to be Bautista, the
officer who’d been conspiring with Saito. His face contorted in horror and confusion. “What the fuck?”
His colleagues followed behind him, equally dismayed; Emmett was still growing, his hoodie binding
tightly against his bubbling torso, his thighs melding together like colliding blimps. “G-get down!”
ordered Bautista. “Down on the ground!”
“Wait—” Emmett’s voice was hoarse, altered by the enormous chin swallowing his neck. The heavy
curtain of his belly spilled down over his crotch. The waistband popped and the zippered fly wrenched
apart, causing his pants to sag down his thighs. A breeze blew stiff and cold against his crack.
“P-please—” A sound cut through the chaos: footst eps, slowly ascending. The officers looked around.
“Dr. Smith,” said Bautista, st epping back. He barked at the other officers as a man emerged onto the
viewing deck: “Lower your weapons.”
Emmett recognized the newcomer at once. In his fifties now and more handsome than ever. Crow’s-feet
etched by the rays of the sun. His once-blond beard speckled silver, like shells glimmering in sand.
He regarded Emmett with a smile. “Hey there, sport.”