Z.

The subject exited the room, and the panel subtly relaxed into the backs of their chairs. They turned over loose pages in notebooks, and rattled out brief typewritten observations onto their laptops. They were silent for a protracted moment, until the one on the Left intoned indifferently: "The next subject is... Mr. Laramie Johns." Pen scribbling on paper. Keys rattling on a keyboard. One by one, the three referred to a questionnaire that Mr. Johns had been required to supply. Age. Address. Education level. Medical history. Employment status. A life filled into empty fields. "Let him in," the Left looked up at an attendant near the door, who exited—and in a moment, returned again with Mr. Johns behind. Mr. Johns, Laramie, entered and quickly scanned the room. It may have been too small for a larger meeting, but seemed too small for the five of them, that afternoon. It was just himself, the door attendant, and the three: Left, Middle and Right. "Have a seat, Mr...