I am not worried yet.

He talks about the regulations that govern hiring and firing of handicapped employees. I did not know that the company got a tax credit for hiring us, dependent on the percentage of disabled workers by division and specialty. He makes it seem that our value to the company is that we are a tax credit, not the work we do. He says that Mr. Crenshaw should have informed us of our right to talk to a company ombudsman. I do not know what an ombudsman is, but Mr. Arakeen is already explaining the word. He introduces another man in a suit; Mr. Vanagli, it sounds like. I am not sure how to spell his name, and it is not easy to hear all the sounds in it. Mr. Vanagli says if we have any concerns about anything at work we should come talk to him.

His eyes are closer together than Mr. Arakeen’s eyes, and the pattern on his tie is distracting, gold and blue in little diamond shapes arranged like steps going up or down. I do not think I could tell him about my concerns. He does not stay, anyway, but leaves after telling us to come to him anytime in office hours.

Then a woman in a dark suit tells us that she is the lawyer from Legal Aid who normally works with our Center and that she is there to protect our rights. Her name is Sharon Beasley. Her name makes me think of weasels, but she has a broad, friendly face that does not look like a weasel at all. Her hair is soft and curly and hangs down to her shoulders. It is not as shiny as Marjory’s hair. She has on earrings with four concentric circles; each one has a different-colored piece of glass in it: blue, red, green, purple. She tells us that Mr. Arakeen is there to protect the company and that although she has no doubt of his honesty and sincerity — I see Mr. Arakeen shift in his seat and his mouth tighten, as if he is getting angry — still we need to have someone on our side, and she is that person.

“We need to make clear what the situation is now, regarding you and this research protocol,” Mr. Arakeen says, when she sits down again. “One of your group has already begun the procedure; the rest of you have been promised a chance at this experimental treatment.” I think again that it was a threat, not a promise, but I do not interrupt. “The company stands by that promise, so that any of you who decide to take part in the experimental protocol can do so. You will receive full pay, but not the stipend for research subjects, if you choose to do so. You will be considered as employed at another site, with the employment being participation in this research. The company is prepared to cover all medical expenses arising from the treatment, even though this would not normally be covered by your health care policy.” He pauses and nods to Mr. Aldrin. “Pete, why don’t you hand out those folders now.”

The folders each have a name on the cover, on a little sticker, and another little sticker that says: PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL: NOT TO BE REMOVED FROM THIS BUILDING.

“As you’ll see,” Mr. Arakeen says: “these folders describe in detail what the company is prepared to do for you, whether you choose to participate in this research or not.” He turns and hands one to Ms. Beasley. She opens hers quickly and starts reading. I open mine.

“Now, if you choose not to participate, you will see — on page seven, paragraph one — that there will be no repercussions whatsoever on your terms of employment here. You will not lose your job; you will not lose seniority; you will not lose your special status. You will simply continue as you are, with the same necessary supportive work environment—”

I wonder about that. What if Mr. Crenshaw was right and there really are computers that can do what we do and do it better and faster? Someday the company could decide to change, even if they do not change now. Other people lose their jobs. Don had lost jobs. I could lose my job. It would not be easy to find another.

“Are you saying that we have a job for life?” Bailey asks.

Mr. Arakeen has a strange expression on his face. “I… did not say that,” he says.

“So if the company finds out we do not make enough money for them in a few years, we could still lose our jobs.”

“The situation could require reevaluation in light of later economic conditions, yes,” Mr. Arakeen says. “But we do not anticipate any such situation at this time.”

I wonder how long “at this time” will last. My parents lost their jobs in the economic upheavals of the early aughts, and my mother told me once that she had thought, in the late nineties, that they were set for life. Life throws curves, she said, and it’s your job to catch them anyway.

Ms. Beasley sits up straight. “I think a minimum period of safe employment might be specified,” she says. “In light of our clients’ concerns and the previous illegal threats of your manager.”

“Threats which higher management had no knowledge of,” Mr. Arakeen says. “I don’t see that we could be expected to—”

“Ten years,” she says.

Ten years is a long time, not a minimum time. Mr. Arakeen’s face reddens. “I don’t think—”

“So you are planning termination in the long term?” she asks.

“I didn’t say that,” he says. “But who can foresee what might happen? And ten years is far too long a period. No one could make a promise like that.”

“Seven,” she says.

“Four,” he says.

“Six.”

“Five.”

“Five with a good severance package,” she says.

His hands come up, palms forward. I do not know what this gesture means. “All right,” he says. “We can discuss the details later, can’t we?”

“Of course,” she says. She smiles at him with her lips, but her eyes are not smiling. She touches the hair on the left side of her neck, pats it, and pushes it back a little.

“Well, then,” Mr. Arakeen says. He turns his head one way and another, as if to ease his collar. “You are guaranteed employment under the same conditions, for at least five years, whether you choose to participate in the protocol or not.” He glances at Ms. Beasley, then looks at us again. “So you see, you do not lose by a decision either way, as far as your job security is concerned. It’s entirely up to you. You’ve all qualified medically for the protocol, however.”

He pauses, but no one says anything. I think about it. In five years, I will still be in my forties. It would be hard to find a job when I am over forty, but retirement would not start for a long time. He gives a short nod and goes on. “Now, we’ll give you a little time to review the material in your folders. As you can see, these folders are not to be removed from the building for legal reasons. Meanwhile, Ms. Beasley and I will confer on some of the legal details, but we’ll be here to answer your questions. After that, Dr. Hendricks and Dr. Ransome will continue with the planned medical briefing for today, though of course no decision will be expected from you today on whether or not to participate.”

I read the material in the folder. At the end is a sheet of paper with a space on it for my signature. It says that I have read and understood everything in the folder and that I have agreed not to talk about it to anyone outside the section except the ombudsman and the Center Legal Aid lawyer. I do not sign it yet.

Dr. Ransome gets up and again introduces Dr. Hendricks. She begins to tell us what we have already heard before. It is hard to pay attention because I know that part already. What I want to know comes later, when she starts talking about what will actually happen to our brains.

“Without enlarging your heads, we can’t just pack new neurons in,” she says. “We have to keep adjusting the number, so there is the right amount of neural tissue making the right connections. The brain does this itself, during normal maturation: you lose a lot of the neurons you started with, when they don’t make connections — and it would be chaos if they did.”

I raise my hand and she nods at me. “Adjust — does this mean that you take some tissue out, to make room for the new?”