He’s part of it.

I heard him tell Miss Chloe that the dosage adjustment would happen tonight, during the two a.m. round.”

Harrison. I had donated ten million dollars to his research wing three years earlier.

It seemed treachery was the one commodity in Manhattan with a guaranteed return.

I understood, hearing it, exactly what the two a.m. round meant.

It was not a dosage adjustment.

It was an execution, disguised as care, scheduled for the hour when the ward was quietest and a comatose man’s sudden decline would raise no questions.