The first thing Nora asked was whether the door could stay ajar.
Malo Kerjean, holding an electrode still shiny with conductive paste between two fingers, looked from the door to Nora as though checking he had heard correctly.
“It can. But the corridor is noisier than you think.”
“It isn’t the noise.”
“I suspected that.”
Room 6 at the Lhomond Center looked less like a bedroom than a laboratory’s idea of one. A single bed, a bedside table bolted to the wall, a washable chair, curtains concealing nothing because the window overlooked a service courtyard. Above the headboard, the outlets were numbered. On the left, a red button labeled CALL. On the right, a gray cable descended through a conduit to the acquisition unit.
Nora followed the cable with her eyes.
“Where does it go?”
“To the control room.”
“Directly?”
“It doesn’t take a detour through Marseille, if that’s what you mean.”
She smiled despite herself. Within ten minutes Malo had understood that she tolerated irony better than reassuring phrases. He was thirty at most, sleeves pushed up, a geometric tattoo on his forearm, and a precise way of never touching a volunteer’s face without first announcing the gesture.
“I’ll clean here,” he said, indicating her forehead. “It itches a little. Then F3, F4, C3, C4, the references, eye movements. If you want to stop, say stop. No explanation needed.”
“What if an electrode comes loose?”
“I come back and attach it again.”
“Without turning on the main light?”
“Normally.”
“Normally?”
Malo set the electrode on the table.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Quality.”
“Of course.”
This time Nora laughed. The laugh shifted the sensor beneath her chin, and Malo raised an admonishing finger. She held still while he adjusted the cable.
End of excerpt. Discover the other stories in this universe.