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his
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    shaggy black hound to the porch rail because she worried that it would set off Max's allergies. Max never said anything, but he was afraid of dogs, especially big ones.
    "That creature is far too skittish," Mrs. Crumlin always complained. "I can tell by looking that it's a biter."
    Although there was a government ban on owning pets, wealthy people were allowed guard dogs, and doctors could own rescue dogs--not that Dr. Tredegar's high-strung hound was capable of rescuing anything, thought Max, leaning over the rail to eavesdrop.
    "Anything to report on the dreams?" asked the doctor in a low tone.
    Mrs. Crumlin shook her head and mumbled something Max couldn't hear.
    "What about his memory? Do you think he's more confused about the past, forgetting more details?"
    "Definitely," came the reply. "He--" Mrs. Crumlin's head whipped sharply around and she stared straight at Max. "What do you think you're doing?" she snapped. "Snooping, are you?"
    "Good day to you, Maxwell!" Always pleasant, Dr. Tredegar flashed his toothy smile. "Come on down then. Time for your injection." Max could see a red leather medicine bag embossed with the High Echelon's yellow sun hanging from the doctor's arm. The bag's official colors and logo meant that Dr. Tredegar was a high-up government employee.
    Max shuffled downstairs, trying to work out the conversation he'd overheard. Why was the doctor so interested in his dreams and memories? In recent months Max had been having problems remembering things--especially his early memories of Gran. It
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    worried him too that he was often confused about real things that had happened in the past.
    But how did Dr. Tredegar know about his memory problems? Max hadn't told anyone about them.
    He entered the parlor, where Mrs. Crumlin was sinking into her favorite soft chair, the one with doilies on the arms. He perched on the rocker by the window, from which he could see the dog tied up on the porch, yipping frantically.
    Dr. Tredegar, a tall, stooped man with square teeth and oily hair, favored red and white striped blazers, paisley shirts and red alligator shoes. He clicked open his bag and plucked out a glass vial. The blackish purple liquid inside was thick and sludgy, flecked with bits of red. It gave off a sharp, metallic smell that shot right up Max's nose.
    His insides rolled around like marbles as he watched the doctor transfer the liquid to the InjectaPort. The InjectaPort, which Dr. Tredegar had designed, was a medical device made of titanium; two inches long, it consisted of a small barrel inside a larger barrel. At one end was a plunger, and at the other were five short needles designed to inject just below the skin. Max had never gotten used to the injections, and in recent months they'd become horribly painful.
    "Why don't we skip my injection today?" he said. A rebellious feeling stirred inside him. "It left a big bruise last time and my arm still hurts."
    Dr. Tredegar chuckled, flicking his finger against the side of the InjectaPort. "Nice try, son, but that's not really an option."
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    "Wouldn't want you to regress, would we, Maxwell?" chortled Mrs. Crumlin. "We have your future to think of."
    "But it hurts. It really hurts!" insisted Max. Why didn't they ever listen to him?
    "You needn't raise your voice, Maxwell," reprimanded Mrs. Crumlin. "We know it stings a teensy bit, but you're a big boy now."
    He hated it when she used that condescending tone. With a sigh, he held out his arm and pushed up his sleeve. He didn't have the strength to fight both of them.
    "Rick rack ruin," sang Dr. Tredegar. "Over before you can say--"
    Max shut his eyes, wincing at the sound of the doctor's twangy, nasal voice. He braced himself for the pain.
    "Crimson moon!" Dr. Tredegar jabbed the InjectaPort into his arm.
    Max flinched, blinking back tears.
    "There's a brave boy." Mrs. Crumlin plucked a doily off the floor. "See, it wasn't so bad, was it?"
    Muttering to himself, the doctor fumbled through his