Davy pushed open the office door, instinctively glaring down at the woman before him. His harsh look went unnoticed by her as she continued to scrawl quickly on a piece of paper.

"Ms. Bates?" Davy leaned against the doorframe, waiting for her to finish writing. When she did, she glanced up at him with a calming smile.

"Davy, how many times do I have to tell you? Angela, not Ms. Bates," Ms. Bates rose from her chair, stretching her tired limbs above her head.

"You said either one when I first met you. You're my boss, I call you Ms. Bates out of respect," Davy explained, "May I leave?"

"Not quite yet, Davy. I have some files I need you to organize for me. Each file has a month in the corner. I want them arranged chronologically," she said, slipping a key into her file cabinet and pulling open the drawer to reveal what looked to be hundreds of envelopes.

"Ms. Bates...er...Angela. It's almost ten o'clock at night. I've been here all day long. Can't I do it first thing tomorrow morning?" Davy pleaded with her. She paused at her position, shuffling through the multiple files.

"If you'd like to show me respect then you'll stay and finish the work you've been assigned to do. Never mind calling me Ms. Bates. Get to it, David." Angela snapped, grabbing a portfolio from off of her desk and marched out, shutting the door behind her.

"Well, that was odd." Davy shrugged, pulling out a heavy stack from the filing cabinet and slamming them down onto her desk. A look of wonder crossed his features as he stared down at the folders on the desk. The answers to everything lying beneath that thin layer of material. The thousands of papers, which probably contained all the information they were looking for.

He narrowed his eyes, sliding his finger between the first slip of paper and the edge of the folder. Davy spied the door once more, before flipping the top cover of the envelope over, revealing the first page of what looked to be a letter.

“A letter?” he thought, reading the contents of the letter. His eyes moved to the date at the top; it was postmarked three weeks prior. Most of what was said referred to frustrations the sender had with “the program” and how his future plans would most likely revolutionize their studies. However, what baffled Davy the most was the last line of the letter.

We are ready with the victims.

Mike sighed as he ran inside the Pad, swiftly shutting the door behind him, and heading towards the downstairs bedroom where Micky and Peter were waiting. He pushed open the door, Peter immediately applauding at his arrival. He stopped –mid-clap– as he began coughing. Micky stood up from his chair, approaching Mike at the door.

“So you got the right stuff?” Micky asked, reluctantly. It was the third time Mike had been sent back to the drug store to get “the right stuff”. Peter had requested a certain kind of medicine to get over his voluntary cold.

“For my sake, I hope so,” Mike replied. He reached into the small paper bag and produced a small bottle containing purple liquid, rather than pink. Micky snatched the bottle out of Mike’s grasp, and moved over to Peter’s bed.

“Is this it?”

Peter peered from underneath the covers, one eye open, and furrowed his eyebrows, “I suppose.”

”What?” Mike then proceeded to enter the room further upon hearing Peter’s comment, “What do you mean, you suppose?”

”Mike, c’mon man. He’s sick. He has the right to get the kind of medicine he likes,” Micky intervened.

“How the hell am I supposed to get the kind of medicine he likes if I have no clue what it is? Do you have any idea how many cold medicines there are in that drugstore?”

“Let me go; I’ll go,” Micky volunteered, accepting the keys that were dropped in his hand. He left without a word, and also with no clue which medicine was the right medicine.

“You feelin’ any better?” Mike pulled the chair Micky had been sitting in further back from the bed. He then slid into it, perching his feet at the corner of Peter’s bed.

“A little; I’m sure I’d feel better if I had my medicine,” Peter said. Mike felt the urge to blow up at his friend, but his face softened as he let out a low snicker.

“Man, I think I finally get this. You don’t want to take the medicine, but you know if you refuse to, you won’t be able to complain because we’ll all keep on telling you to take something. So you send me, and now Micky, on this wild goose chase to find a special kind of medicine that doesn’t even exist? Am I getting this straight?”

”You couldn’t be further from the truth, Michael,” Peter muttered, his eyes remaining closed. Mike shook his head, letting his feet drop to the floor. He stood up.

“I’ll get you some soup,” he declared, exiting the room. He heard a soft ‘thank you’ as he left.

As Mike was letting the soup warm, the door burst open. Mike looked up, expecting to see Micky back from his trip at the drugstore, but instead saw Davy rushing over to him.

“Hey, man, where you been?” was Mike’s greeting, but Davy completely ignored it.

“They have victims.”

“What do you mean, they have victims? Who?”

“Them! The scientists. I was reading this letter and it said, the victims are ready, or something like that. Mike, they have victims,” Davy repeated.

”I heard you the first time. Victims of what?”

”Well, I don’t know. I was going to read further, but Ms. Bates came back and never left. So I couldn’t read anything else, but it has to be bad. Peter and I have to quit! They’ve got victims; who knows what kinds of things they are doing?”

“After one day? Boy, won’t that look suspicious,” Mike frowned with sarcasm.

“Mike!” Peter called from the bedroom.

“I’m coming, hold on a minute!” he shouted back. Mike then turned to Davy as he poured the soup into a bowl, “Just forget it for now, man. Peter’s sick; we’ve got to take care of him.”

Davy followed Mike into the bedroom. He stopped at the doorway and leaned against the frame. He regarded Peter for a moment before shaking his head, “Oh, come off it Petah. You’re not sick. Not that sick, anyway.”

“I’m back!” came Micky’s yell. He appeared next to Davy, holding another brown paper sack.

“Micky, the have victims!” Davy instantly said.

“Man, I told you to shut up about that,” Mike warned, taking the bag from Micky.

“What’s up?” Micky inquired to the exchange between Mike and Davy.

“I don’t get this. Davy’s always wrong,” Davy said, referring to himself in third person, “Davy says this is a bad idea to begin with, he’s wrong. Davy finally tries to help by getting some evidence, but once again, he’s wrong?”

“Right, Davy. You are always wrong,” Micky confirmed.

“Glad we got that cleared up,” Mike added, “Peter, is this-“

”Nope,” Peter interrupted before Mike could ask the question.

“Did you even look at it? I did very good.” Micky took the medicine from Mike and sat down on the bed. He removed Peter’s covers in an effort to get him to look at the bottle in his hand, “See? It’s good!”

”My medicine is pink.”