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her.
    Owen emerged from the shadowed corner. “I don’t know, she might have the right idea if you ask me.”
    â€œI’ll make sure not to ask then.” Retrieving the tub of supplies, I set to work, kneeling beside the boy. Transferring our methods from mouse to human anatomy wasn’t an even swap. We’d need more of everything. I bit my lip, mind churning. “He should go in the brine solution,” I nearly whispered. I twisted to look at Owen. “More of the conductor. He needs to be submerged.” The brine—a solution of 26 percent sodium chloride and water—had been proven to act as a conductor. Each time we used the brine water the rat had moved a bit more than without. We had gotten the idea from Professor Giovanni Aldini, who began dabbing the inside of convicts’ ears with salt water before trying to reanimate them.
    â€œAre you—”
    â€œI’m sure.” I wasn’t sure, but, in moments like this, it didn’t help to be wishy-washy. “Help me move him,” I said.
    More obediently than I’d expected, Owen crossed the room, this time taking the upper load of the boy’s body. I grabbed the ankles, and together we transported the corpse to the empty claw-foot tub. We gave ourselves to the count of three before hoisting him into the porcelain basin. His solid back made a hollow echo as he flopped to the bottom. Streaks of rust crawled up the sides of the bathtub and cascaded toward the drain, which I plugged with a rubber stopper.
    I yanked off his shoes then leaned in to unfasten his belt.
    â€œWhat are you doing ?” Owen grabbed my arm.
    â€œYou don’t honestly think we can shock someone in jeans, do you? Don’t be such a prude.”
    Owen’s face reddened to the shade of uncooked hamburger meat. I thought I heard him say something about common decency, but once I’d unbuckled the belt and the waist of the tattered jeans, he took one pant leg and we each pulled. I had been unaware that there were degrees of dead, but with his jeans removed, the boy somehow looked a lot deader. I pulled his shirt over his ears. The gash down his side smiled up at us, crimson and menacing.
    Unclothed down to his boxers, I inventoried the full extent of the damage. Cuts of various sizes marred his legs, presumably from where he’d been sliced by shattering glass. A deep purple bruise colored the side of one thigh. I worked my fingers into a pair of rubber gloves and rummaged for a pair of tweezers before beginning to extract two inch-long shards that were lodged in his chest. Owen turned his back as I let each clink into an empty jar.
    I reached for the stack of textbooks positioned nearby. Scraps of paper hung out of dog-eared pages. I selected one with a yellowing spine, my dad’s old copy of Gray’s Anatomy , and flipped open to a two-page spread detailing the nervous system to use as my road map.
    I locked my teeth together and tried to steady my hand. The scalpel was cool and stiff between my fingers as I rolled the boy farther onto his side. Positioning the point at the base of his neck, I cut through the skin and muscles until there was a clear view of his spine. With more force, the scalpel dug into bone, and I found what I was looking for—the spinal marrow. I inserted one of the wires I’d gathered so that it touched the marrow with enough lead to trail out several feet once I laid him back down.
    The next incisions were smaller. One on each temple with only trace amounts of blood. By the time I hacked through to his sciatic nerve, I barely saw him as a person at all.
    Seconds slipped into minutes, and before I knew it, I’d skated through over an hour. My gaze flicked from one end of the body to another, searching for holes, searching for possible mistakes. Mistakes I couldn’t afford.
    I rubbed my eyes and then turned the nozzle on the faucet. Water poured over him, mixing with the blood to