Owen emerged from the shadowed corner. “I don’t know, she might have the right idea if you ask me.”
“I’ll make sure not to ask then.” Retrieving the tub of supplies, I set to work, kneeling beside the boy. Transferring our methods from mouse to human anatomy wasn’t an even swap. We’d need more of everything. I bit my lip, mind churning. “He should go in the brine solution,” I nearly whispered. I twisted to look at Owen. “More of the conductor. He needs to be submerged.” The brine—a solution of 26 percent sodium chloride and water—had been proven to act as a conductor. Each time we used the brine water the rat had moved a bit more than without. We had gotten the idea from Professor Giovanni Aldini, who began dabbing the inside of convicts’ ears with salt water before trying to reanimate them.
“Are you—”
“I’m sure.” I wasn’t sure, but, in moments like this, it didn’t help to be wishy-washy. “Help me move him,” I said.
More obediently than I’d expected, Owen crossed the room, this time taking the upper load of the boy’s body. I grabbed the ankles, and together we transported the corpse to the empty claw-foot tub. We gave ourselves to the count of three before hoisting him into the porcelain basin. His solid back made a hollow echo as he flopped to the bottom. Streaks of rust crawled up the sides of the bathtub and cascaded toward the drain, which I plugged with a rubber stopper.
I yanked off his shoes then leaned in to unfasten his belt.
“What are you doing?” Owen grabbed my arm.
“You don’t honestly think we can shock someone in jeans, do you? Don’t be such a prude.”
Owen’s face reddened to the shade of uncooked hamburger meat. I thought I heard him say something about common decency, but once I’d unbuckled the belt and the waist of the tattered jeans, he took one pant leg and we each pulled. I had been unaware that there were degrees of dead, but with his jeans removed, the boy somehow looked a lot deader. I pulled his shirt over his ears. The gash down his side smiled up at us, crimson and menacing.
Unclothed down to his boxers, I inventoried the full extent of the damage. Cuts of various sizes marred his legs, presumably from where he’d been sliced by shattering glass. A deep purple bruise colored the side of one thigh. I worked my fingers into a pair of rubber gloves and rummaged for a pair of tweezers before beginning to extract two inch-long shards that were lodged in his chest. Owen turned his back as I let each clink into an empty jar.
I reached for the stack of textbooks positioned nearby. Scraps of paper hung out of dog-eared pages. I selected one with a yellowing spine, my dad’s old copy of Gray’s Anatomy, and flipped open to a two-page spread detailing the nervous system to use as my road map.
I locked my teeth together and tried to steady my hand. The scalpel was cool and stiff between my fingers as I rolled the boy farther onto his side. Positioning the point at the base of his neck, I cut through the skin and muscles until there was a clear view of his spine. With more force, the scalpel dug into bone, and I found what I was looking for—the spinal marrow. I inserted one of the wires I’d gathered so that it touched the marrow with enough lead to trail out several feet once I laid him back down.
The next incisions were smaller. One on each temple with only trace amounts of blood. By the time I hacked through to his sciatic nerve, I barely saw him as a person at all.
Seconds slipped into minutes, and before I knew it, I’d skated through over an hour. My gaze flicked from one end of the body to another, searching for holes, searching for possible mistakes. Mistakes I couldn’t afford.
I rubbed my eyes and then turned the nozzle on the faucet. Water poured over him, mixing with the blood to create a sickly red. Like thinned-out watercolor paints. I raked through every possible nook of my intellect. What had I missed? What could go wrong?