The lab director called Maddy in right before lunch.
“It’s too soon,” he told her. “You need time to grieve.”
“Maddy blinked and studied a statuette on the second shelf behind him. It was a bowling trophy. She had never suspected Dr. Corinth of bowling. This meeting was a revelation.
“Is there a formula?” she asked, still watching that bowler. “If Taylor had been older, say, even a year old, if he’d made it to his first birthday, would I then need more time to grieve, as presumably, I would have had more time to become attached? More than two months, I mean.”
Dr. Corinth leaned back in his high-backed hair to study Maddy.
She kept her face pleasant, her hands still.
Like the bowler, watching his ball hurtle down that slick lane.
“Maddy,” Dr. Corinth finally said—a playful, fatherly scold to his voice.
“I need to work,” Maddy said. “The experiment is in a crucial phase.”
“And you’re sure you can—”
“I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”
It was a lie, of course, but everything had been a lie for the past two weeks. Why should work be any different?