It was my father’s signature at the bottom of every page.

“The project required a baseline,” the voice from the speaker said, as if responding to my thoughts.

“A subject with genetic stability, someone whose progress I could monitor hourly.”

I turned the page, my thumb leaving a smudge on the yellowed paper.

There were diagrams of my brain waves.

There were lists of pharmaceutical cocktails, marked with precise dosages.

*December 14th: Subject exhibited increased heart rate during Phase Two sensory deprivation. Dosage adjusted.*

I remembered that December.

I had been told I had a severe fever that kept me in bed for weeks.

I remembered my father sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking my hair, telling me I was going to be okay.

He hadn’t been comforting me.

He had been waiting for the drugs to clear my system.

“I justified it to myself,” the voice through the static said. “I told myself I was keeping you safe from Voss.”

“I told myself that if I didn’t do it, they would find someone who wouldn’t care if you survived.”