“Your transcript said you’re a runner. Is that right, Mr. West?” he asked.
“Yes. Cross-country.”
“Have you ever, to your knowledge, taken, used, or been given any performance-enhancing drugs?”
“What?”
“They would have been classified as an ESA, or erythropoiesis-stimulating agent. Pharmaceutical product. Administered by injection.”
“No,” said Will, looking at Robbins with alarm. “Never. Absolutely not.”
Kujawa continued matter-of-factly. “They stimulate the body’s production of a hormone called erythropoietin. EPO substantially increases production of red blood cells, which radically increases the amount of oxygen carried to your muscles. Enables athletes to perform at a premium in sports demanding high endurance, like biking, rowing, or running.”
Will’s anger built steadily. “That’s called blood doping.”
“Have you heard of HGH or human growth hormone? Because your blood levels are also nearly double the average for your age and size—”
“If you’re accusing me of taking drugs, I swear to you that has never happened.”
Kujawa didn’t react, just looked at him, neutral, appraising. Waiting.
“It’s not that he doesn’t believe you, Will,” said Robbins calmly. “Go on, Ken.”
“EPO and HGH also enhance the body’s ability to heal, from life-threatening wounds down to micro-tears in muscle fibers. The obvious value to athletes is it speeds recovery. Not just from injuries but also from routine training.”
Kujawa pulled a mirror from the top drawer of his desk and a smaller hand mirror from his coat. He walked over to Will. “You suffered a gash in your scalp that was an inch long. I needed six stitches to close it. Roughly twenty-four hours ago. Take a look at it now.”
Kujawa positioned one mirror above Will’s scalp and gave the other to Will to hold in front of his eyes. Then he moved Will’s hair to the side so he could see the site.
The wound was gone. No scar, no scab, not even any stitches. Just a slight white discoloration.
“Not only is the wound healed, but your body’s already assimilated the dissolving stitches, which normally takes more than a week. This, to put it mildly, is more than a little unusual.” Kujawa put the mirrors away, took some printed pages off his desk, and handed them to Dr. Robbins.
“I ran a panel of routine tests with the blood I drew yesterday,” he said. “The oxygen-binding capacity of your blood is off the charts, over three times the high end of normal. You’d make Lance Armstrong in his prime look like an invalid.”
“I don’t understand this,” said Will. “It’s not possible. This has to be some kind of crazy mistake.”
Robbins was still staring at the results, pale, brow furrowed, deep in thought.
“I don’t think so,” said Kujawa. “To that end I’d like to run more tests, to determine whether your body produced these levels on its own or if they were synthetically created and, maybe by some method unknown to you, introduced into your system. Have you ever been given any injections?”
“No.”
“What about any unusual vitamins or supplements?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” said Will.
“It would be helpful to see your medical records. Yearly physicals, vaccinations, that sort of thing. Could you ask your parents to send them to me?”
“Of course,” said Will.
The truth was a lot more awkward: He couldn’t remember ever visiting a doctor. His father kept a weathered black leather bag in their bedroom closet that contained a stethoscope; exam instruments for ears, nose, and throat; a blood pressure cuff; and syringes for drawing blood. He used them to give Will a comprehensive checkup twice a year. For the longest time, Will had assumed that’s what every family did. But there was another factor in this unusual routine: Will had never needed a doctor. Because as far back as he could remember—his entire life—he’d never been sick. Not once.
“Rather than have you worry, I want a more complete picture,” said Kujawa. “Run more tests, cover all the angles, and see what they tell us.”
“We’d need your consent, of course,” said Robbins. “And your parents’ as well. Would you ask them to okay this?”
“I’ll call them today,” said Will.
“The sooner the better,” said Dr. Kujawa. “Use my phone if you like.”
“They wouldn’t be reachable now. I’ll try later,” said Will. “Does this mean it’s okay for me to work with the cross-country team?”
“Mr. West, based on what I’ve seen, you could run from here to the border of Canada without even breathing hard.”
OceanofPDF.com
PROFESSOR SANGREN
For the second day in a row, for different reasons, Will walked out of the medical center with his mind reeling. This time he hardly noticed the glacial air.
This explains the running, at least, but how on earth did it happen? Am I some kind of freak? No wonder my parents didn’t want me on a cross-country team; I’d end up on Ripley’s Believe It or Not. And once they start poking around in my insides, what else will they find?
As he walked toward the quad, bells rang nearby. Will tracked them to a tower atop Royster Hall, near the middle of the commons. Visible from anywhere on campus, the large clock on the tower’s four sides read 11:00. Sounding the hour.
Will pulled out the schedule McBride had given him. The first of his five classes started at eleven. Right now. Room 207, Bledsoe Hall. He summoned the campus map in his mind and located Bledsoe Hall. He calculated direction and distance—over a quarter of a mile—and started running.
He reached Bledsoe before the bells stopped ringing. Will hurried in, dashed upstairs, and found room 207. He saw shapes through the door’s rippled glass window and heard a male voice. Will took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Six rows of curved mahogany desks on low risers ascended in a terraced half-circle amphitheater. A wall of windows was covered with louvered wooden blinds. Twenty-five students filled the desks, their tablets propped in front of them.
Every student looked attractive, poised, and physically fit. A diverse group of races and ethnic groups, all, without exception, put together and self-assured. If this sample was any indication of the Center’s student body, Rourke was right; these kids were way above average. If they weren’t already rich and famous, it was only a matter of time. Will felt like a skunk at the opera.
The instructor—a boyish, energetic man with a shock of long sandy hair—stood before a square blue screen that took up most of that wall. On a lectern in front of him sat some sort of built-in computerized control panel. The man stopped speaking as Will entered.
“And you are?” asked the teacher.
“Late,” said Will.
“Only by … two months,” said the instructor in a deep, resonant voice.
The class laughed.
Will glanced at his schedule: CIVICS: PROFILES IN POWER AND REALPOLITIK. Professor Lawrence Sangren. “Really sorry, Professor Sangren,” said Will.
OceanofPDF.com
#72: WHEN IN A NEW PLACE, ACT LIKE YOU’VE BEEN THERE BEFORE.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome if you would the late Will West,” said Sangren, holding a hand toward Will like a talk-show host introducing a guest. “And did we bring our book with us today, Mr. West?”
“I was hoping I’d get the textbook once I got here.”
For some reason the class laughed at that as well. Will’s cheeks burned hot.
“Like primordial life emerging from the sea, learn to crawl before you walk,” said Sangren. “And take a seat.”