No Hope for Gomez! Read Online Free PDF Page A

trial participants, Gomez,” Dr. Hargrove said, then she looked up from her form and whispered conspiratorially, “Especially if those participants were suffering from interactions due to a second trial they’d secretly signed up for.”
    “Yeah,” I said, looking deep into her eyes and discovering at least two new colors. “I guess that would be something to keep under wraps.”
    Dr. Hargrove gave me a quick, sweet smile, and started on her questions.
    “Any dizziness, nausea, or headaches since your last visit?”
    “Nope.”
    “Difficulty swallowing?”
    “Nope.”
    “Unexpected feelings of elation or euphoria?”
    “Not really, no.”
    When she reached the last question, “Anything else that’s not on the list?” I told her how I’d felt a little out of breath about half an hour after our last session. “I suddenly started breathing very fast and very deeply,” I said, “for no apparent reason.”
    “How long did this last?”
    I cast my mind back. “I’d say less than two minutes… three tops.”
    “Did it return at any point?”
    I shook my head. “No. It happened just the once.”
    Dr. Hargrove made some notes on the form. “Good,” she said. “Good.” She shot me another smile, which faded too quickly. “Anything else?”
    “I don’t think so, no.”
    The initial high from seeing Dr. Hargrove write down my ID from memory had dissipated and I began to notice she didn’t seem her usual self. She looked a bit down. A bit sad.
    “Is everything alright?” I asked.
    “What?” She looked up from her form. She’d been miles away. “Yes, Gomez,” she said, “you’re doing great, nothing to worry about.”
    “I meant with you. Is everything alright with you?”
    “Of course,” she said. But it seemed like an automatic response.
     
    Blog entry: After taking my pills, I left the clinic and walked over to the zoo, which was a few blocks down the street. I bought a ticket and spent an hour wandering around, not exactly sure what I was looking for. There were no signs of anything lethal out in the open, of course, nothing you could come into contact with that would allow you to make it home safely and then lapse into a deadly coma. And, there were no signs of Joseph Miller having been there.
    I made another circle of the entire compound, finding nothing.
     
    Blog entry: Thinking over my next move, I bought a plastic crocodile and an ice cream cone at the souvenir stand. Immediately started to feel silly, so I gave the crocodile to a passing child. When I tried to give my half-eaten ice cream to another child, I ran into the first problem of the day.
     
    Blog entry: Dusted myself off. Pushed some tissue up my nose to stop the bleeding. Ignored a sudden bout of intense déjà vu.
    I also realized I shouldn’t be looking for clues, I should be asking for them.
    Found one of the zoo people picking up the trash around a bin and asked her if she’d known Joseph Miller. She screwed up her face.
    “He was a volunteer,” I offered. “38, dark hair, tall, wrote a blog about meatpacking?”
    “Miller…” she said. “Miller...” She let the name roll around her tongue. “Yeah, I think I remember him. Wasn’t he John’s Tuesday afternoon monkey-poop scooper?”
    “Could be,” I said. “Could be. So, where can I find this John? Is he working today?”
     
    Blog entry: John was working that day. I found him out by the monkey cages as instructed. He was a thoughtful looking man in his mid-fifties. He sported a ruffled old fedora and a manly five o’clock shadow.
    “Joseph Miller…” He shook his head. “No, sorry, never heard of him.”
    “Are you sure? People around here seem to think he was your Tuesday afternoon monkey-poop scooper.”
    “Ah,” John said. His face cleared, “Joe! Sure, I know Joe! Good guy. Quiet, but a hard worker. When he bothers to show up that is. Haven’t seen him in a while.”
    “He died,” I told him. “Passed out in his apartment, then