Project 17

4

Lillian arrived early on Monday. Paul greeted him, looking like a young college professor in his jeans and blue sweater. He looked both tense and excited.

“First day high?” Lillian said, and Paul said, “You and me both?”

Lillian laughed. Paul seemed to understand that despite the Titanium card and the higher-than-usual pay, his new hire still wasn’t sure she wanted to be here.

Paul walked her around the house and went through the contact numbers, the medication and proper dosage, the list of delivery numbers she could call if she got hungry. “Caleb sometimes has food delivered,” Paul said, “but he’s usually okay with whatever’s in the kitchen. Help yourself, if you get hungry.”

They had a two-door with a Newspad installed, the Newspad on Reminder Mode and currently saying that they had no more milk. Lillian didn’t fail to notice that Paul didn’t have any sharp objects in the kitchen—no knives, no forks, no peelers. Just a collection of plastic utensils in a square wicker basket lined with maroon cloth. The combination induction stove and oven had a bear on the display, marching from one end of the screen to the other. Password-locked.

One of the cupboards was made of steel and was also password-protected. “The meds are here,” Paul said. “The password is ‘abraham lincoln’. One space between words. No caps.”

“Abraham Lincoln,” Lillian repeated. “Right.”

“Caleb is upstairs. He keeps his bedroom door open. If he locks his door and won’t let you in, call me immediately.”

“What if he went to the washroom?” Lillian asked.

“He’ll keep the door ajar,” Paul said. “Come on, I’ll say goodbye to him.”

The second floor was dark, with only weak light coming through a single window breaking the gloom. Caleb’s door, indeed, was open. Lillian saw a glimpse of his room—Caleb sitting on a swivel chair, jacket slung on the backrest, laptop glowing on the table, wood paneled wall gleaming and bare—before Paul blocked the doorway.

“Lillian’s here,” Paul said. Lillian rested her back against the cool wall.

Murmurs until Caleb raised his voice. “I know you don’t trust me enough to treat me like an adult, but really, a child to look after me?”

More murmurs, then Paul: “Do you want me to stay?”

He didn’t sound angry. Goddamn Paul the martyr, Lillian thought.

Caleb sounded rueful. “No. I’m sorry. We’ll be all right.”

Paul stepped out shortly after. When he said his goodbyes and left the house, Lillian suddenly felt like she had lost a shield.

There was a chair in the hallway. Lillian pulled it closer to Caleb’s room. She might have been making a lot of noise; when she looked up, Caleb was staring at her, looking annoyed.

“Sorry,” Lillian said, and sat down. She took out her phone and opened her book reader app. Without looking up, she said, “I’m not a child.”

No reply.

Caleb stayed in his room the entire morning, clacking away on his computer. At one point he put his hands on his forehead and said in a plaintive voice, “Why do you keep asking this question? You’ll understand it better if you just read the damn email!”

Lillian wondered what that was about.

Around lunchtime the doorbell chimed, and Caleb stood up and went downstairs. Lillian followed, hoping to intercept him. But it was just a food delivery. Caleb turned to her after closing the door and handed her a carton box of fried chicken, rice and coleslaw.